


Operation: Princess Wife

by GwenDish



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: (past) Mpreg, All the Time is Naked Freyr Time, Also Shameless Handwaving of Science-y Stuff, Angst, Asgard is so Mainstream, Attempt at Humor, Brotherhood, But Still Kind of a Dick, Character Development, Character Study, Cheekbones, Comic/Movie/Mythology Mash-up, Crossdressing, Disney Princesses - Freeform, Everybody Wants Frejya, Everything is Better with Princesses, Eyebrows, F/F, F/M, Fairy Godmothers, Families of Choice, Family, Female Friendship, Feminist Themes, Forced Marriage, Friendship, Friendship is Magic, Frigga's Hardly All-Mom of the Year, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, God of Xanatos Gambits, Gods Messing with History, He's Just Misunderstood, Het, Het and Slash, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Jane Foster is an Adorable Nerd, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki isn't evil, Loki's Kids, Loki's Lips Sewn Shut, Loki's Unconventional Displays of Gratitude, M/M, Multi, Natasha Romanov is the Only Sane Man Here, Odin's A+ Parenting, Open Relationships, Past Relationship(s), Past Tense, Pepper Potts Deserves a Freakin' Medal, Pop Culture, Present Tense, Racism, Science Bros, Sexism, Sigyn has Better Things to do, Sigyn is Not a Wicked Stepmother, Sisterhood, Sisters Before Misters, Slash, Squick, Steve Might be a Disney Princess, Taking Liberties with Magic, Thor Is Not Stupid, Tony Can't Keep his Kinks to Himself, Tony Stark Hates Magic, Tony digs guys in leather pants, Trolling, Tropes, Unconventional Relationship, Vanaheim is Populated by Hipsters, Vanaheimr | Vanaheim, Warning: Loki, Women Being Awesome, Worldbuilding, Xenophobia, and Even More Liberties with Mythology, but she tries, he just doesn't think before he acts, loki doesn't know what he wants, the Small Matter of the Wife, Ásgarðr | Asgard (realm)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenDish/pseuds/GwenDish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha isn’t sure how it happened, but somehow she’s found herself sitting on the couch with Jane Foster, watching <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>.  The next thing she knows, she’s listening to Jane ramble on about princesses, and true love, and how this could be the answer to the Avengers’ annoying, be-horned, god-shaped problem: Find Loki a princess.</p><p>Then Thor informs them that his brother already has one.</p><p>Natasha can work with this.</p><p> </p><p>Or, the history of Loki's terribly misguided attempts at love and friendship.  It is an account that is both heartbreaking and cringe-worthy. That he manages to be successful anyway and win over the unlikeliest of people is nothing short of miraculous. Especially when it's all thanks to his spiteful, cantankerous wife. Features both slash and het, angst and humor, and plenty of Norse mythology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At some point, Jane Foster decided that they were friends.  Jane Foster: astrophysicist with an IQ of 178; graduate of CalTech with a PhD in aerospace engineering, and MSs in physics and astronomy; now a member of SHIELD’s Aeronautics and Space Research and Development Department.  Driven, focused (re: slightly obsessive), protective (re: territorial, somewhat feral—mainly when it came to her research), practical, no-nonsense.  Yet at _some point_ , Jane decided that she and a government-yes-I’ve-kill-people-agent/assassin/spy were friends.  Best friends.  BFFs.  _Besties_.

 

Okay, so in fairness, Jane has never actually used any of those terms (thank God).  But it is still apparent that the other woman considers them friends.

 

From a psychological standpoint, Jane’s behavior makes sense.  A young woman in a new and male-dominated environment, nervous but determined to prove herself…it was natural that she would gravitate toward the only other woman present.  Being the girlfriend of one of the other Avengers as well as a SHIELD employee means that Jane spends a lot of time with the team.  And being the only female Avenger means that Natasha is that woman.

 

Yeah, it kind of makes sense.  Especially given that Thor, while he obviously cares about Jane, is neither astute nor emotionally mature enough to comprehend “girl talk.”  (From what she knows of Asgardians, they have never been big on tearful breakdowns or touching heart-to-hearts.  Natasha thinks that she would do well on Asgard, if it weren’t for their complete under-appreciation for stealth tactics and disgusting gender stereotypes.)

 

And because Pepper Potts is busy running a company and rejecting all of Tony’s attempts to produce an Iron Man cartoon show, Jane’s only other option is Natasha.

 

It also makes a pathetic sort of sense that Jane would continue to seek out Natasha’s company.  There is the potential camaraderie that could come with the alliance of two girls trying to make it in a man’s world.  But Natasha knows that there’s more to it than that.  Given Jane’s history—home schooled, straight-A student, graduated college young—her personality—ambitious workaholic, sometimes dismissive of others in favor of intellectual pursuits—and the fact that the woman quit her job in Puente Antiguo, New Mexico almost immediately after being offered a position with SHIELD… Yeah, safe to guess that Jane has few friends—none that she is close to—and is estranged from her parents.  That she isn’t hesitant to latch on to people who are civil toward her and don’t interfere with her work says that she isn’t completely anti-social, would even like some companionship.

 

What _doesn’t_ make sense is that Jane actually seems to _enjoy_ Natasha’s company.

 

To reiterate: Natasha Romanoff is a government super operative, a _secret agent_.  She can kill someone with a stuffed _penguin_ (long story).  Her job description basically reads:  Perform espionage, interrogate, kill people, get paid, be okay with that.  And she _is_.  And because of this, Natasha is neither warm nor fuzzy.  She can _feign_ a nice personality as easily as donning a mask (oh, good simile; very original), but in reality she’s barely _approachable_.  When you’re taught at age four that forming attachments is for the weak and that  people make better tools than friends…you also learn that it’s better this way.

 

And yet Natasha repeatedly finds herself sharing coffee with Jane, swapping texts with Jane, and having fairly regular movie nights with Jane.  The other woman has even managed to talk her into watching Disney _Princess_ films, for God’s sake.

 

It’s all for the sake of keeping the astrophysicist humored.  Behavioral evidence suggests that Jane has the potential to succumb to neurosis if she becomes overtaxed, so it’s in SHIELD’s best interest if someone ensures that the other woman takes a break every now and then.  Even if that does mean that Natasha has to endure tooth-grindingly cheerful cartoons that encourage feminine weakness and unrealistic aspirations.

 

“Okay, I’ll admit, Snow White’s voice is a little grating—”

 

“A _little?_ ”

 

“…it makes me feel like my eardrums are gonna explode for their own protection.”  A beat.  “All I’m saying is that _Beauty and the Beast_ isn’t that bad.  Belle’s _smart_ , she’s focused on what’s _important_ —and she never compromises who she is, even if it makes her an outcast.”

 

Natasha raises an eyebrow, zeroing in on Jane’s tone in those last four words.  Slightly wistful.  She’s over-identifying, which explains why she’s so quick to defend the film.  Natasha wants to roll her eyes, but then she pictures an eight-year-old Jane (too smart, too quiet, happy with her studies but hurt when this means that the other kids won’t invite her to play) and…fine.  She can see where a child would be enraptured by someone they could finally relate to—and a _princess_ , no less, and one in a _Disney_ movie, too, because apparently every little girl in the US is taught to emulate these cartoon royals.  But add to that children’s natural penchant for being shallow and Belle’s having the same hair and eye color as Jane…of course the other woman is enamored.  It’s _still_ a juvenile display of over-identifying, but Natasha won’t hold it against her.

 

“And you laughed—okay, you didn’t really laugh, but your mouth _twitched_ when she tricked Gaston into doing a header into the pigsty.  It _did_ , and I’m citing that as proof.”

 

Jane looks pleased, and Natasha is about to prove her wrong—emotions: they’re for the weak and all that—but then she just shrugs.

 

“Guy’s an asshole.  And I love how the _whole town_ is on board with his forcing Belle to marry him.  They don’t care if she says no or that he’ll be raping her on their wedding night.  Women are just baby machines, anyway.”

 

The other woman has this smile on her face that indicates that she knows something Natasha doesn’t (unlikely).

 

“Someone’s getting into this,” Jane noted slyly.

 

“I’m just at the end of my rope and am prepared to turn it into a noose the next time I come across another self-important megalomaniac who thinks he can do what he wants and that everyone will blindly obey.”

 

Another beat.

 

“What did Loki do this time?”

 

She looks at Jane, a little…not _surprised_.  Natasha doesn’t do ‘surprised’ because that’s how you end up with a bilboquet lodged in your shoulder.  She simply didn’t expect the other woman to be so perceptive.  And that’s unfair, because Jane is anything but stupid.  It’s just that she usually isn’t attuned to anything unless it involves science.  Or Disney Princesses, apparently.

 

“Turned every vehicle in Manhattan into bumper cars,” she finally answers.

 

“Well, that’s better than when he turned them all into ice cream,” Jane says fairly.  “Less messy.”

 

Natasha says nothing because, all right, Jane has a point.  Not to mention that with bumper cars being, well, _bumpered_ , the city had actually seen fewer accidents than it does on most normal, Loki-free days.  It seems that bumper cars are a great panacea for people with road rage.

 

“Call it a slow day for him,” Natasha mutters.  “Don’t forget that, since returning to Earth, he’s impersonated the King of Belgium; tried to make the Jamaican flag international; put giant replicas of his Freudian helmet on the Sphinx, the Spring Temple Buddha, the Statue of Liberty, _every single_ Lenin statue—”

 

“Wait, ‘ _Freudian_ ’ helmet?”

 

“He’s an egotistical, unathletic man with Daddy issues who’s always been second-best to someone like _Thor_.  And he wears a helmet with big, golden _horns_.  We should just call that thing his Compensation Hat and get it over with.”

 

The other woman snickers quietly but points out “You could say the same thing about Thor and his hammer, though.”

 

“ _Could_ you?”

 

Jane purses her lips, shifty-eyed.

 

“…no.”

 

“That’s what I thought.”  And Natasha settles back to watch the rest of the movie.  Apparently, the Beast (wait, seriously? he doesn’t have a name?) has rescued Belle from a vicious pack of wolves (stupid; wolves rarely attack people) but has been injured in the process.  Instead of doing the sane thing and seizing the opportunity to escape, Belle has taken him back to the castle because she is a ~~moron~~ Good Person like that.  The Beast is now showing his gratitude by being a condescending asshole.

 

That’s one condescending asshole too many.

 

But before Natasha can begin her rant anew, Jane kicks it in the face with a postulation.

 

“Wonder if that’s what he needs.”

 

And Natasha, who prides herself and has in fact made a _career_ on being hyper-aware, has no idea what she’s talking about.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Loki,” Jane replies.  “Maybe he just needs a girlfriend.  You know, to distract him.  Give him something better to do—oh.  Oh, not like _that_ …although, obviously, eventually they—but I didn’t… Nevermind.”

 

“Be glad Stark’s not around.”

 

“Thanking every Norse god I know,” Jane agrees weakly.  “But seriously, what if it’s like _Beauty and the Beast?_   He might seem rude and conceited—”

 

“I can’t believe you just quoted indirectly.”

 

“—but if he met the right person, someone who could stand up to his bullshit, maybe he’d stop taking his anger out on you guys?  I mean, from the way Thor talks about him, Loki’s grown up feeling pretty unworthy and neglected, despite being one of the most intelligent and powerful people in the Nine Realms.  So, I dunno, what if he met someone who appreciated him?  Who’s to say he wouldn’t change?”

 

“His psychological makeup?  Evident in the fact that he’s repeatedly tried to take over the world?”

 

“ _Has_ he, though?  Seems like he just wants to annoy you guys.”

 

And damned if there isn’t more to that than Jane knows.  Or is supposed to know.  Thor’s probably told her everything about the alleged ‘Chitauri Misunderstanding,’ since the man has seemingly no grasp on the concept of discretion.

 

“By constantly annoying us, he’s ensuring that we waste time and energy that could be put to better use.”

 

“Which is why we should work on finding him a girlfriend,” Jane concludes, as if it’s so simple.

 

“Indeed, ‘tis a fine idea, my lady!” Thor declares from behind them.

 

Jane nearly falls off of the couch in surprise but Natasha only blinks, having heard the God of Thunder the second before he entered the room (though honestly, super spy or not, how could Jane miss him? the man could give Gaston a run for his money, tromping around wearing boots like he does).

 

“Indoor voice, please,” Jane reminds him with strained sweetness.

 

“Forgive me, my darling,” he implores (and using endearments like that, Natasha knows that he’s totally forgiven).  “But it is true: In the past, my brother’s spirits have always seemed much improved whenever he is courting a maiden.  However, before choosing a suitor, I would ask that you first inform his wife of your plans.”

 

“His _what!?_ ” both women exclaim.

 

Natasha remembers thinking not too long ago that nothing ever surprises her.  Clearly, she was wrong.  Normally, this would mean a massive re-assessment of her skills, but at the moment, she is too stunned and repulsed to care.

 

“Loki has a _wife?_ ” she demands.

 

“You’re condoning _infidelity!?_ ” Jane cries.

 

“Well, if the couple has not yet pledged devotion to one another—”

 

“They’re _married!_ ”

 

Despite numerous evidence to the contrary, Natasha knows that Thor is not actually an idiot.  His knowledge of weaponry, combat, and battle tactics rival even her own.  But where he excels in the art of war, he’s kind of hopeless when it comes to people.  Today is a perfect example.  To most, Jane’s reddening complexion and shrill tone would have been telltale signs of an impending relationship apocalypse.  Thor, however, just stands there, smiling genially as if his words make perfect sense and Jane is merely too simple to comprehend.  No, this won’t end badly.

 

“Jane, you must understand,” Thor attempts to placate, “when one lives as long as the Æsir, it is only natural for couples to seek out others to warm their beds, otherwise the relationship is likely to grow tedious and strained.”

 

“So you see nothing wrong with ‘ _lying_ ’ with other women?” Jane presses.

 

Thor beams and shakes his head.

 

“Not at all!”

 

Natasha suspects that Thor might find himself being exiled to the couch, tonight.

 

Were she more prone to gesticulation, this is where she would do a facepalm.  Instead, she merely closes her eyes and finds herself suddenly struck with musical inspiration:

 

_No…one’s…thick like that Thor,_

_Is a dick like that Thor,_

_No one’s ass needs a really good_ kick _like that Thor!_

 

Yeah, they are so done with Disney for a while.

 

When she opens her eyes, Natasha sees a bewildered Thor and a frustrated Jane who is clearly trying to stay calm.

 

“Okay, I know that it might be acceptable on Asgard…but here on Earth, sleeping with someone when you’re already in a committed relationship— _especially_ a marriage—is usually frowned upon.  This isn’t like on _the Tudors_ where it’s okay for men to run around on their wives.”

 

“Oh, Asgardian women engage in this practice as well,” Thor assures her.  Natasha doesn’t know whether to hit him for being oblivious or laugh at Jane’s pinched expression.

 

“That’s _not_ the _point_ ,” Jane seethes. 

 

Thor’s eyes widen, and…there it is.  Realization has finally dawned.

 

“Jane…do you believe that _I_ have lain with another?”

 

He looks aghast and Jane shifts uncomfortably, saying “Well you were being so casual about it, and you said it was _normal_ on Asgard, so naturally it _did_ occur to me…”

 

“Oh _Jane_ ,” Thor cries, looking happy and boisterous once more as he sweeps his considerably smaller girlfriend into his arms and kisses her firmly.  “I would not dare!” he announces passionately.  “With your being a mortal, unless I can convince Father to grant you access to Idunn’s apples, our time together is brief.  Ergo, I will spend not a second on another, for I desire nothing more than to cherish every moment I have with you.”

 

Jane’s expression is a teary-eyed combination of shocked and touched, but mostly the other woman seems elated because she promptly throws her arms around the thunder god’s neck and gives him a fierce snogging.

 

Natasha rolls her eyes.  Saps.  Frankly, she found Thor’s little declaration to be a bit…depressing.  But Jane knows what she’s doing.  In any case, they need to readdress the initial problem.

 

She clears her throat.

 

“The small matter of the _wife?_ ”

 

“Aye, the Princess Sigyn,” Thor explains.  “Lady of Constancy, unwavering in her loyalty to her husband.”

 

“Oh, why don’t we just ask her for help?” Jane asks Natasha, like they’ve actually decided to go through with this.  “Loki’s less of a hassle when he’s dating someone, and this woman’s already his wife—and he must really love her if she’s so loyal to him, right?”  She turns to Thor.

 

He nods.

 

“Indeed, they are legendary, the lengths my brother went to in order to win his lady’s heart.”

 

“Not her literal heart, right?” Natasha asks.  “I’ve noticed that the line between metaphor and reality in Norse myths is kinda thin.”

 

But Thor waves her off.  “Nay, ‘twas the heart of his previous suitor, Angrböda.”  Then he smiles because literally giving someone your heart is apparently a standard part of Asgardian mating rituals.

 

“ _And_ ,” Jane continues teasingly, “according to Disney, hooking up with a princess guarantees a happy ending.”

 

“Tell that to Pocahontas,” Natasha mutters.

 

“She wasn’t a _real_ princess.”

 

Thor just looks confused.

 

“I know not of whom you speak, but I assure you that my sister-in-law’s presence nearly always ensures a successful outcome.  After all, among other things, she is the Goddess of Victory.”

 

“Well,” Natasha says dryly, “with that flawless logic, how can we lose?”

 

 

* * *

 ¸.•°*°•.¸

* * *

 

 

Three days later, Natasha finds herself sitting in front of the latest version of the StarkBook laptop (it’s red. metallic. effing. _red_ ), Skyping with Director Fury.  Behind her, the inventor of the aforementioned laptop is loudly rummaging through the kitchen, using the paper-thin guise of making a smoothie when in actuality he’s looking for his bottle of Glenfiddich forty-year-old single malt.  Natasha’s squirreled it away somewhere safe (good scotch is good scotch, damnit), but she’s anticipating the inevitable breakdown that will come when Stark convinces himself that she’s thrown it out.

 

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” the irate Fury (is there any other kind?) begins, “because I think I might’ve missed a couple _vital points_ when I was distracted by the line of absolute _bullshit_ you just spewed at me.”

 

Natasha blinks, slowly, unmoved.

 

“Wait,” Stark interrupts, “are you talking about the plan to have Princess Zelda melt the God of Dickery’s icy heart with the power of love?  Because _that_ plan has ‘win’ written _all_ over it.  Though personally I don’t see why we can’t just use Steve.  I mean he meets all of the princess qualifications, only with more muscle—which is probably to our advantage—”

 

“Stark,” Natasha warns.

 

“Hey, I’m on your side,” he says defensively.  “Stopping an evil, all-powerful god by sending in _another_ all-powerful god who Wikipedia claims is only known for two things: Being said evil god’s wife _and_ being mindlessly devoted to him?  Yeah, that won’t backfire into ‘Loki vs. Iron Man, Round II.’”

 

“‘Loki vs. _the Avengers_ , Round II,’” Natasha corrects.  “And if you don’t shut up, I’ll use a chokehold on you.”

 

“You’re not allowed to do that—she’s not allowed to do that,” Stark says, addressing the laptop.

 

“She is in the event that you become more of a liability than an asset,” Fury replies.  He gives the other man a pointed look.  “And having to put up with your bullshit during an urgent meeting with her boss?  I’d say that counts.”

 

Stark takes a step back, hands rising in a gesture of surrender.

 

“Fine.  But I’m telling Pepper on you guys.”

 

“Who do you think gave me authorization?”  Natasha tops that off with a rare smile.  Smirk.  Twitch, if anything.  Her tolerance for egotistical, condescending assholes is still dangerously low, and with Loki flying under their radar, she’ll have to make do with Stark.  Which sounds much more inappropriate than it really is, but that’s a given with him.

 

Fury cuts in before Stark can fire a retort.

 

“If asked, I’ll deny ever saying this, but he _has_ a point.  What the hell makes you sure that this _isn’t_ gonna result in another attempted world takeover?”

 

Here Natasha sighs, shutting her eyes meditatively.  Only the slight pinch of her brow indicates any sign of aggravation.

 

“Since we’re making these kind of statements, _I_ never said _this_ : In Loki’s defense—” cue teeth grinding “—he never intended to take over the world.”

 

“Right,” Stark adds unhelpfully.  “The earth was just a _tool_ in his grand-ass scheme to distract a gang of intergalactic robo-slugs from taking over his _own_ planet.  Realm.  Thing.  It’s clear he could give a shit less about _us_ , so when his lady friend tells Lokilicious that she wants Monaco for her birthday, there’s nothing to stop him from saying ‘Sure, baby, anything for you.’”

 

“Except the fact that Loki’s too self-serving and refined to ever say anything like that,” Natasha counters.  “And that it’s been seven months since he’s returned to Earth and he hasn’t made a single attempt at global domination.”

 

“That’s what he _wants_ you to think,” Stark admonishes, paranoid and cynical.

 

“Thor has given his word that his brother’s intentions are harmless,” Natasha continues over him.  “And you know how Asgardians are about making vows.  And aside from the property damage—which he has always rectified—”

 

“‘Rectify’—good word choice for a guy with a golden stick up his—” Stark is abruptly silenced when a pillow attacks his face.

 

“—Loki hasn’t actually done anything to endanger human lives—”

 

“He stole my socks!”

 

“Only the left ones.”  Natasha waves another pillow warningly and the billionaire shuts his trap.  Turning back to Fury, she concludes, “But clearly, he’s not out to rule the world and enslave humanity.  Dr. Foster has pointed out that, if anything, he just seems to be—”

 

“Trolling us,” Stark supplies, ducking at another pillow threat.  “Because he’s a big attention whore because Odin All-Daddy didn’t give him enough hugs as a kid.”

 

“I’m surprised you two don’t get along better,” Natasha comments wryly.

 

Stark opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his finger at her.

 

“Ooh…that’s low, ‘Tash, way low.  Playing on a guy’s Daddy Issues?  Just for that, I’m not helping you with Operation: Princess Wife.”

 

She merely shrugs.

 

“Okay.  Jane’s almost ready to make her Einstein-Rosen bridge, anyway.  Besides, she’ll probably get it done faster without your music and overall personality, uh, ‘ _harshing_ ’ her _‘groove_.’”

 

“Doubt it.  Intend to _prove_ it.”  And with that, Stark is on his feet and headed for the exit.  “I’ll be in my lab.”

 

“Remind me to give you a raise,” Fury remarks after the playboy inventor has vanished.

 

“Who says you always have to use brute force?” Natasha replies.  “Back to the point: Whether or not Loki poses an actual threat, he’s still interfering with the Avengers’ initiative.  Engaging him in physical combat has proven to be more detrimental the team than anyone else.  Until we can find a way to keep Loki contained, I think we need to try a different approach.  Thor insists that Loki has always been more…placid…whenever he’s had something to…distract him.”

 

“And you wanna do that by getting him _laid?_ ”

 

“According to Thor, the only other things that can hold his brother’s attention are quests for treasure, learning new spells, and having sex.  Since he’ll never believe that _we_ want him to find El Dorado and since the last thing we want is for him to become more powerful…that leaves sex.

 

“From what I’ve gathered on this woman, she may be a god, but she doesn’t pose a threat.  Granted, the myths don’t offer much, but from the information that Thor has provided, she’s appears to be introverted and nonviolent.  When the wormhole generator is complete, we only need to contact her and see if she’ll agree to assist us.  If not, then that’s it.  We try something new.

 

“Besides,” she goes on, her voice adopting a darker edge, “you owe the team for making us believe that Coulson was dead.”

 

Of course, Fury is unapologetic, merely raising his eyebrows at her.

 

“Are you saying, Agent Romanov, that _you_ actually fell for that ploy?”

 

“Of course not,” she answers at once.  “But what I _am saying_ , is that the ones who _did_ fall for it, are _not_ your biggest, fans right now.  To the point where some of them are reluctant to work for you again.”

 

Fury gives her a long, hard look that Natasha supposes is meant to prompt tears and shrivel testicles, but damned if it has any effect on her.  And after several seconds of silent glare-battle, her director eventually gives her a nod.

 

“All right,” he consents.  “Get Stark and the others off their asses and on their feet.  Tell them Operation: ‘ _Princess_ _Wife’_ has been approved.”

 

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

 

Almost everyone turns up for the execution of Operation: Princess Wife.  And that _is_ , apparently, what it’s being called.  Once Fury said it (and Stark refused to _stop_ saying it), the name seemed to stick.

 

Jane is here because she’s the expert, it’s her damn experiment, and she completed (before Stark did, Natasha is pleased to note) both the gravitoelectromagnetic wave generator _and_ the quantum foam stabilizer, but is still worried about everything in that way that Jane is always worried about everything involving astrophysics.

 

Stark is here because, and because “It’s still _my_ technology that’s powering your wormhole-maker, and you people don’t know a _thing_ about arc reactors.”  Although, when they were working together, Stark mostly played his music too loud, criticized the idea of magic, and nearly drove Jane to hysterics by insisting that she’d never create a successful “GEM-generator” unless she loosened up.  But while that might work on Stark World, Jane Land clearly operates differently.  Natasha eventually had to warn the womanizing asshole that his Chivas Regal would end up the way of his Glenfiddich if he didn’t get to work and leave Jane alone.  He is currently in full armor because, he says, the arc reactor that he’s built to power the GEM device gives off energy levels that might be too hot for anyone else to handle.  Natasha suspects it’s really because he’s afraid of getting thrown out another window.

 

Thor is actually perched on the edge of a large, round opening in the roof because this is the best (safest) place for him to conduct the electricity used to direct the wormhole/bridge.  He’s also here because he is their resident expert in Norse mythology and thus he (hopefully) knows best how to handle anything their Princess Wife might throw at them.  The man appears to be eager to see his sister-in-law, but then, Golden Retriever-level eagerness is a standard with Thor.  Although, she allows, it might just be nice to talk to a fellow Norse god who isn’t his insult-hurling dickhead (oh, _ha_ ) brother.

 

Thing is, since returning to Earth for the third time, Thor has been unable to interact with any of his family or friends.  Apparently, rebuilding a _Rainbow Bridge takes time, and Thor’s father had spent most of his energy on sending his eldest to Earth to wrangle his youngest, and the last of it on sending Thor back when Loki had shown up again._

 

Which means that when Fury gave their plan the go-ahead, the thunder god was ecstatic.  And ever since then, he has gone to the top of Stark Tower first thing every morning and literally _shouted_ to Heimdall (security guard to the _Bifröst_ and Asgard’s version of Mycroft Holmes), instructing the man to “Alert the Princess Sigyn! Inform her that her brother-in-law, Thor Odinson, wishes to request an audience with her!  Please have her ready herself to travel to the New City of York, in the Realm of Midgard!”  Every.  Goddamn.  Morning.  All the more reason why Natasha is relieved that Jane has finally finished the wormhole-maker.

 

Fury is here because he can’t leave well enough alone.  Clint is here, armed to the teeth, because “I’m not taking any chances with these goddamn gods, Natasha—” (goddamn gods, Clint, really?) “—I mean it, I still get weird-ass Nutella cravings from when that bastard was in my head.”

 

And _she_ is here because, somehow, this has become _her_ ‘project.’  Even though it was all Jane’s idea.  Jane should at least get half the ~~responsibility~~ credit.

 

Banner isn’t here because his heart and consequently the Hulk can’t take the stress and neither can Jane, who would probably have a conniption if the man smashed any of her equipment.  Steve—even she can’t stick to his surname; guy’s too damn nice—is also absent because he’s giving a lecture at PS 321 on the importance of serving the country, protecting the planet, and recycling.  Coulson is “babysitting” Steve even though the Captain is probably the most responsible team member; Natasha suspects that this is largely because no one wants to risk the man being stabbed by another alien deity.

 

“Okay,” Jane calls out, practically vibrating with excitement.  “Everybody ready?”

 

A small commotion as guns are cocked, bows poised, giant hammers are raised, arc reactors hum to life, and everyone shuffles to attention.  Fingers ghosting over the firearm at her hip, Natasha gives Jane a sharp nod.

 

Offering a tentative smile in return, the other woman steadies herself behind her quantum foam stabilizer.  Stark’s latest and greatest arc reactor glows ominously as its creator aims the GEM control device at the platform where they’re hoping to open the wormhole.  High above them, a storm begins to brew at _Thor’s request.  With a deep breath, Jane begins the sequence._

 

There is a lot of noise, and a lot of light.

 

Later, Natasha will say that it was impressive but nothing beyond the CGI effects found in a SyFy channel movie.  But at the moment, the entire room becomes awash in such a tremendous energy that it feels like the floor is shaking, even though everything remains perfectly still.  Switches are thrown, the platform is elevated slightly, the darkened sky crackles with electricity, and for a moment it’s just like they’re trying to recreate Frankenstein’s monster. 

 

The walls seem to curl inward then go rigid, and suddenly a brilliant, electric arc shoots into the sky—a pulsating, effervescent column of incandescence.  It is a swirling mass of pure, blinding, white-hot _light_ , and it buzzes with a force that Natasha can both hear and feel.  It all gathers rapidly at the top of their domed ceiling, undulating in a way that is both beautiful and forbidding.  Then, in a split second, it contracts into nothingness.  But it’s still _there_ , it isn’t _gone_ , she can still sense it—they all can.

 

Suddenly there is a rip, an actual _rip_ —there’s no other way to describe it—like someone has taken a knife and torn a hole in the ceiling, and it is golden and smoldering around its crenulated edges.  Through the rift, Natasha can see a flicker of plum sky dotted with stars, of another world, before a band of shimmering, molten color surges forth.  It’s like a heated waterfall as it spills to the floor, one that hardens into a crystallized array of every shade imaginable.  Delicate yet nearly indestructible.  Sturdy enough to act as a bridge that would carry a god between two worlds.

 

As she thinks this, a beacon of golden-white appears on the platform, thrumming steadily along with the energy of the room.  Unearthly and intense, the light begins to quiver, twisting around and curling inward as something takes shape.

 

Natasha blinks— _one blink_ —and in that miniscule, unimportant second the light has stilled.  Fleshed-out.  And there is now a woman standing on the platform, a disconcerting aura ebbing around her.

 

Whatever Natasha has been expecting, it isn’t this.

 

Princess Sigyn (assuming that _is_ whom she’s looking at) would not look out of place in a _Vogue_ photo spread, modeling one of the more abstract collections.  Medieval royalty meets Erté couture.  She is wearing a licorice-colored wimple under a v-neck gown of black satin that hints of a silvery floral pattern whenever it catches the light.  Most of this is hidden beneath long, sweeping robes the rich color of red wine.  Around her shoulders is an onyx-colored cape decorated with twisting, jet-black runes and fastened at her throat by a silver fox fur collar.  Thin, delicate hands, protected by fine black gloves, reach out from almost knee-length trumpet sleeves to clasp the opal-topped knob of a silver walking cane. 

 

The woman herself is tall and willowy, though the bizarre peaked shoulders of her robes make her seem wider, more intimidating.  Every inch of skin has been covered, save for her face.  What could be seen would probably make a Romantic-Era poet liken it to alabaster.  Like most of the gods, this one is undeniably beautiful.  In that haughty, somewhat malnourished fashion model kind of way.  She has the envy-inducing cheekbones and sharp chin that come with a diamond-shaped face.  A pretty, pointed fox face.  Her nose is long, would appear large if it wasn’t narrow and upturned.  Her mouth is the small, full moue of someone who rarely smiles, and her dark eyes, though wide, are almond-shaped and heavy-lidded, which only encourages the image of the bored, disdainful aristocrat.  Judging by the shade of her immaculate, high-arching eyebrows, Natasha suspects that her hair is either golden brown or dark blonde.  Whatever the color, it’s hidden beneath the ensemble’s gleaming showpiece: On her head, she wears a smooth, pewter headdress adorned with two gently curved horns, reminiscent of those of a Nyala bull.

 

No, definitely not like a princess.

 

“Tell me, friends,” Thor suddenly calls from the roof, “has my sister-in-law arrived?”

 

Before anyone can make a move, the woman speaks.

 

“Midgardian warriors—I am Sigyn of Vanaheim, Princess of Asgard.  I come at the behest of Thor Odinson, but be forewarned…”  She raises her hand.  A silver, full-finger claw ring glitters ominously.  “…do not seek to impede me.”  And her fingertips begin to _glow_.

 

As if everybody wasn’t tense enough…  To her left, Natasha can hear Fury’s muttered “Oh _hell_ no.” and she silently has to agree.  Mission failed.  Time to abort.

 

“For I bear a magnificent onus,” the goddess continues. “My intellect is more vast than your largest oceans, and through my veins courses a power you cannot be _gin_ to comprehend.  Heed my words, mortals, for I will _not_ —”

 

There’s a soft _whoosh_ from Natasha’s right.  The next thing she knows, Fury is aiming his gun, Jane’s yelling at Clint, Stark has activated his energy repulsors, and Princess Sigyn has fallen to the floor with an arrow protruding from her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jane likes Disney Princesses – in fiction, people who are insanely smart often seem to have unexpected quirks, habits, and/or outlets. For Jane, I decided to make her a fan of Disney Princess films because 1) with a story that largely centers on deconstructing the princess archetype, they needed to be included somehow, 2) I can’t see anyone else being a fan or even liking them that much, and 3) I can see Jane being a fan because of how taken she is by Thor’s chivalry and because she was keen to believe that he was a god almost from the beginning. She strikes me as the kind of person who would watch the films to relax because while it might all be a fantasy, it’s still a nice idea.
> 
> The Jamaican Flag – the country’s national colors, represented on their flag, are black, green, and gold. I figured that Loki would probably appreciate this.
> 
> “…every single Lenin statue” – Vladimir Lenin lead the October Revolution, which overthrew the monarchy and lead to Tsar Nicholas Romanov and his entire family being executed, even Anastasia—yes, [that Anastasia](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/mystery-solved-as-tests-prove-tsars-entire-family-was-murdered-1642089.html). Afterward, Lenin became the first Premier of the former Soviet Union. To this day, he’s seen as both a hero and a villain, with the former ensuring that [tons of statues and monuments](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_statues_of_Lenin) have been erected in his honor. Therefore, Loki’s putting his helmet on them is somewhat symbolic (one ambiguously evil advocate of change management supporting another).
> 
> Angrböda – the myths seem undecided on whether the heart that Loki ate belonged to Angrböda or a witch named Gullveig—and some theorists say they’re one in the same. And no one seems to know whether Loki ate Angrböda’s heart and gave birth to just Hela, or if it was Fenrir and Jörmungandr as well, or if he only gave birth to all of the trolls in the world, or if Angrböda had all three of Loki’s monster kids. The only kid that anyone is certain he gave birth to is Sleipnir.
> 
> Wormhole Generator – as my areas of expertise are psychology, criminology, and the English language, do not take any of the science-related stuff as gospel. Being a meticulous researcher, I did look up information on wormholes to at least (hopefully) get the terms right. Apparently, building a device that would generate them [wouldn't be that difficult](http://www.instructables.com/answers/Is-building-a-wormhole-generator-possible/) and people have already made patents for such machines; the only thing that’s stopping us is our inability to create GEM waves. 
> 
> Asgard’s version of Mycroft Holmes – Heimdall isn’t the Asgardian government, but he does share Mycroft’s ability to see and know everything about everyone. Initially, I was going to use J. Edgar Hoover (the 1960’s version of Mycroft Holmes), but figured that people might enjoy a _Sherlock_ reference.
> 
> PS 321 – also known as William Penn School, is an elementary school in Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York, so I think Steve would be inclined to lecture there.
> 
> Nyala Bull – I spent entirely too much time trying to find a set of horns that perfectly matched my mental image of Sig’s helmet and headdress, if only because I didn’t want to flat-out admit in the initial description that [Tony's right](http://www.disneyvillains.net/images/Maleficent.jpg) and she looks like [Maleficent](http://www.freewebs.com/fantasmickingdom/Maleydragon.JPG). Turns out, the [Nyala](http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1297/1279478790_3c465b1ea3.jpg) [bull](http://www.wildlife-pictures-online.com/image-files/nyala_mkgr-8446_blog.jpg) is a pretty good fit.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_There’s nothing to it, really..._

* * *

 

 

Oh _dull_.  The All-Father was _still_ shouting at him.  Berating him.  Demanding explanations and repentance for the heinous wrongs he had committed—all while he was still wearing a gag, thus Odin truly sought only to bring attention to that fact and cause him further humiliation.  Most likely the man had instructed Thor to use the device so that his conniving false-brother would be unable to use his gift of eloquence to manipulate his captors.  But there _was_ the inkling that it was meant as a twofold insult—a evocation to all of his reputation as a weaver of lies, and a reminder to _him_ of his place as the overlooked son, secondary and silent.  And, of course, he was unable to interrupt the All-Father’s tirade.  Truthfully, he supposed that if he were to see the current situation from Odin’s narrow, cycloptic point of view, the man was justified in playing the _skeltāri_...

 

But again, _dull_.  He was paying attention—of course he was—but, really, this farce had long since grown tedious and he was eager for his chance to speak.  Odin had already dubbed him _níðingr_ —

 

“ _That_ is what all of Asgard is calling you!  _Never_ has such _disgrace_ befallen the House of Odin!”

 

—threatened imprisonment—

 

“For your deceit, wickedness, and cruelty, you should be trapped within arboreal confines, forced to remain rooted in the center of the city until the day someone weeps for your plight.  Yet that is unlikely, given the _unforgivable_ _savagery_ you have shown!”

 

—exile—

 

“I should banish you to Jötunheim, powerless!  See how you fare against the very people you tried to annihilate!”

 

—and disownment.  _Can’t disown what isn’t yours,_ Father. 

 

Now the man was pontificating about knowing one’s _place_ , how his crimes—committed out of _jealousy_ and _spite_ , nothing else—had sullied his family’s honor, brought them immeasurable _shame_ , wounded their _hearts_ —

 

It was deeply amusing how Odin insisted on using possessive adjectives—their, we, us—as if to make his wayward foundling’s actions see even more all-encompassing.  Also interesting was that his rant was suspiciously lacking any mention of Loki’s _true_ heritage, which told him that Odin feared that the realm would take the news as well as Loki himself had.  Imagine—the King of Asgard had let a _Frost Giant_ walk among them, for centuries!  Worse yet, he had given him a place of power—made him a _prince_ , no less!  Really, the _scandal_ …

 

 _I see what you’re doing, All-Father.  Words are_ my _specialty, remember?_

 

Now, if only he could _use_ them… But, patience.  He had nothing if not patience.  And so he watched and listened.  He kept his expression neutral (not even giving a sarcastic blink whenever he was referred to as “Odinson”), his stance upright, and his gaze level.  Never would he allow even a _pinprick_ of weakness to be revealed.  He would give Odin _nothing_ , and wait.

 

“…As King of this realm, I demand an explanation for these atrocities.”  From his gilded throne, Odin stared him down, his only eye smoldering with disappointment and contempt.  “Loki Odinson, do you have anything to say in your defense?”

 

Ah, and _this_ the was right moment for a sarcastic blink.  _Honestly, man, now you’re just being petulant._   He had waited long enough.  With a casual flick of his wrists, the gag and manacles—meant to fetter his magic, _please_ —evaporated.  Ignoring the collective gasp of the small congregation that had been summoned, Loki clasped his hands behind his back and opened his mouth to speak.

 

“Enough!”

 

…only to be interrupted.  Yet again.  But he would make allowances if it gave him the rare bestowal of watching the dutiful, demure All-Mother lay into Asgard’s mighty King.

 

The gilded doors to his left had been thrown open and the Queen had strode forth, refusing to acknowledge the protests of the guards when her eyes were trained on her husband.

 

“I advised you to remain in your chambers—for your own peace of mind,” Odin reminded her in the stern voice of underlying warning.  “You do not want to be present for this.”

 

“Mother, please.”  And there was Thor, ever willing to follow Odin’s example.  “This will only upset you.”  Loki received a marvelous look of distaste following this and made certain to keep his expression blank.

 

“It is not your place to dictate my wants,” the Queen responded, sharply eyeing both her legitimate child and her husband.  “If I wish to see my son, I shall.”

 

And this, Loki knew, was why no matter what happened, how vehemently he rejected Odin’s belated attempts at fatherhood, how frequently he denied a bond between Thor and himself, he would always acknowledge Frigga as his mother.

 

Though his fist clenched around Gungnir, eventually Odin relented.

 

“You’ll not approach him, nor exchange words with him.  I will not allow his punishment to be diminished by a mother’s overwrought sympathies.”

 

With a cool nod, she took her place on the arm of her husband’s throne, but Loki saw Odin’s eye flick upwards and over, narrowing at someone in the doorway as if to say _This is all_ your _fault._

 

And watching that individual as she met the All-Father’s glare with haughty indifference, Loki had to admit that the man’s suspicions were likely correct.  The woman did so love to…encourage people.  Even him.  Not often enough, and not in the way that he had needed, but it was appreciated all the same.

 

“My lady, _your_ presence is _not_ permitted within my hall,” Odin stated, impressively managing to convey irritation while maintaining a veil of decorum.

 

“Verily,” she accepted, “but I have sworn an oath of everlasting loyalty to my husband, thus I shall remain by his side forevermore.”

 

There was not a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but Loki knew that anytime the woman spoke to someone using flowery speech, that person was being mocked.  He had been on the receiving end of it often enough— _verily_.

 

Odin snarled, “Now is _not_ the time for—”

 

“Actually, perhaps it would be best if she stayed?” Loki ventured, making his tone soft, polite, even chastened.  “You recall, All-Father, that I am bound by her magic to be forthright with her.  Ergo, what better way to receive an honest account than in the presence of my wife?”

 

And _oh_ , the All-Father _knew_ he was up to something, no matter how sincere Loki’s meek words and bowed head appeared to be.  But, _he_ could see that the man was too arrogant to think that his false-son had a chance to turn this in his favor.  So Odin nodded his acquiescence, and gestured to the small throne on the Queen’s left, the one that had once belonged to Loki.

 

“Princess Sigyn, be seated.  And pray ensure that he speaks nothing but the truth.”

 

Loki felt his lips twitch even as he chose to ignore the fact that his wife had yet to acknowledge him.  Really, after over a year spent in the Chitauri’s detestable company, he was desperate for any sort of amusement.  And this?  This promised to be a _riot_.

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

“Before I begin, All-Father, I would ask that you grant me one request?”

 

Begrudgingly, the King nodded.

 

“I ask only that I be permitted to speak without interruption until I have completed my tale.”

 

“Granted,” Odin allowed and Loki inclined his head in thanks.

 

“May I start by expressing my profound thanks to you, my King, and truly all of Asgard, for what you have done for me.”  He bit his lip, looking contrite.  “I…realize that due to my…previous behavior…you may believe my feelings to be insincere—and you are justified in your doubt.  However, it is my greatest hope that when I am finished with my account, you will find it in yourself to accept my gratitude.”

 

He inhaled deeply, playing the nervous, hesitant _veslingr_ they all thought him to be.

 

“Now I must confess: I _was_ working with the Chitauri—” Their little audience gasped at this.  “There was no manipulation, coercion, indoctrination…nor was any geas used to control my thoughts.  I acted of my own free will.  But before you pass judgment, allow me to explain that my allegiance…was a _farce_.”

 

Behind him, someone gave a snort of disbelief.  He believed it to be Lady Sif—she was the only person who was churlish enough and who openly detested him enough to be so rude during such a grave event.  Still, he kept his eyes forward.

 

“When I…fell…from the Bifröst _…” It was with the intention of dying.  But now is not the time_ _. “_ …I believed I would die.  Instead I eventually found myself a prisoner of the dreaded Chitauri.  Granted, ‘prisoner’ is a kind word—I could have easily escaped.  However, what one must realize about the Chitauri is that, for all their enormity, for all their exceptional brutality…they really are rather _dim_.  To the extent that they revealed their plot to seize Asgard and annihilate all of its inhabitants.”

 

Another collective gasp—honestly, it was as if they rehearsed these things…

 

“To say the least, learning that a sadistic race of barbarians plans to invade your realm, one begins to feel considerably…” _Less suicidal._   “…more determined.”  He flashed a sheepish grin.  “In spite of all that transpired during my brief time as King regent…Asgard is still my home.  It is where my loyalties will always lie.  If you remember but one thing from this narration, let it be that, no matter how it may appear, all that I have ever done has been for the good of Asgard.” 

 

Not a lie, though not a complete truth.  It was one of two holes in the loop of Sigyn’s binding spell, and Loki was well acquainted with both.

 

“I explained my situation to my captors—omitting certain exploitable details, of course.  After hearing the story of a lifetime of scorn, isolation, and derision…of having my talents mocked and undervalued, my advice and opinions cast aside—even though I frequently warned everyone of the potential dangers their actions posed, though my allegedly _worthless_ skills were what often saved people from their own stupidity, and though I was repeatedly rewarded by having _blame_ cast in _my direction_ because the best solution to the threat of exposing the flaws of the gods is to paint said threat as a _liar_ and a _miscreant_.  It was perfectly logical when said person was already seen as _ergi_ for using knowledge and _seið_ as his weapons.  And it was so easy to ignore the fact that no matter what his tactics, he _never_ shied from battle when it was necessary.”

 

His breath was coming in slow, heavy bursts, making it seem as though he was trying to temper his outrage.  But no, this resentment was a deeply rooted wound, long neglected and left to fester for over a millennia.  He _was_ angry— _furious_ —but his words were too precise, bore the sting of painstaking consideration, for this to be a spontaneous fit of emotion.

 

“ _Centuries_ of being relegated to the shadows, of having my accomplishments _sneered at_ when they weren’t overlooked entirely…of never receiving _one ounce_ of encouragement or acceptance from those who swore their love and devotion to me.”  Eyes on Odin and Thor, now.  A mirthless laugh.  “Or even an effort to discourage the aspersions of others, or a single word in my defense.”  _Your support and respect—I would have been content with that._   “Nothing.  Because choosing strategy over blind violence is seen as the actions of a _liesmith_.  And then, hearing of the vile revelation that my family is not my family—that my entire life has been built upon a _lie_ …it was easy for the Chitauri to believe that I would turn traitor.

 

“Perhaps I should make it clear that I would have escaped to Asgard to warn you all of the impending attack, but then…” A smile—thin, helpless.  “…who would have believed me?”

 

His mother, normally so composed, appeared devastated.  Thor looked dumbstruck—moreso than usual.  Odin’s expression was an odd mixture of vexation, chagrin (oh yes, he knew that his Jötunn foundling had spoken the truth), possibly even remorse.  Loki saw several of the council members exchange glances while the Warriors Three shifted uneasily and Lady Sif gave a defensive huff.  And his wife…though her face was as stoic as ever, her eyes shined with a mutual understanding—a _frustration_.  Her pursed, silent mouth spoke volumes of her disapproval.  But it was unwise to dwell on any of that, now.  He pressed on.

“And so I made an alliance with the enemy.  Soon, I was able to convince them that it would be wise to obtain the Tesseract before attempting to conquer Asgard.  Perforce, I had to turn this into a barter for my own benefit, as my anger wasn’t enough to convince them that I would so willingly betray my kingdom.

 

“After visiting Thor during his banishment, I investigated the Midgardian organization known as SHIELD.  I wanted to make certain that they only intended to hold him captive, not subject him to torture or experimentation.”  Thor’s expression (startled, moved) was ignored.  “Instead, I uncovered the location of the Tesseract—as well as information on an elite team of warriors that Midgard’s government planned to assemble.  At the time, this knowledge was of little use to me, but _now_ it had suddenly become an incredible boon.

 

“I informed my captors that I knew the key to a victorious conquest and that I would readily deliver it to them—if they provided me with the means to rule Midgard.  Once I had secured the Tesseract, I needed to ensure that it did not fall into the Chitauri’s possession.  After assessing Midgard’s renowned ‘ _Avengers_ ,’ I determined that they were most qualified to distract the Chitauri menace and, ideally, _destroy them_.”  He gave a hesitant smile.  “And they did.  Now the Tessaract has been returned to its rightful place, and the threat to Asgard was eliminated before it even reached our realm.  Better still, Asgard has suffered no losses.”

 

“The same cannot be said for Midgard!” Thor suddenly raged.  Of course.  Count on the God of Thunder to not adhere to his ‘no interruptions’ request.  Loki sighed inwardly (saw his wife roll her eyes at Thor), but quickly adopted a remorseful countenance.

 

“A regretful consequence—one I had hoped would not be necessary—but I was aware of the possibility when I made my plans.  All I can say in my defense is that I thought it better to sacrifice the lives of frail, mortal strangers than those of Asgardian citizens.”

 

There was a quiet murmur behind him, and Loki knew that the odds were turning in his favor.  The Æsir had nothing against mortals, but most of them were too arrogant (and in his case, logical) to see the sense in growing attached to a primitive society that only lived for a few decades.  And before his banishment, Thor had been in agreement.  But now it seemed that his once-brother had reason to protect the infantile realm—a woman.

 

Ah well, he mused (a quick glance at Sigyn), it wasn’t as if he was innocent of committing any regrettable acts for the sake of a woman.  However, it seemed that Thor’s lover had caused him to forget his previous indifference toward Midgardians, for the thunder god blustered on:

 

“If what you say is true, then _why_ , brother—” He ignored Loki’s pointed scowl. “—did you turn my fellow warriors and I against one another?  Why did you not ask for help?”

 

“Because the gaze of the Chitauri leader could rival even Heimdall’s omnipotence,” Loki answered simply.  “I couldn’t very well explain the situation without revealing my plan to betray him and his followers.” 

 

Thor, Odin, and Frigga all looked to Sigyn: A plain nod in answer. 

 

“As to your first question…”  Loki did not bother to hide his disdain.  “…the amount of testosterone in SHIELD’s flying machine was practically _stifling_.  There was little chance that you would learn to function as a team when all of your egos were competing for dominance.  So, I encouraged a group of warriors to cooperate by using the only language they understand: sparring.  Eventually, someone would sustain a grave enough injury that the rest of you would feel chastened enough to treat one another with mutual respect.”

 

“And for that the Son of Coul—an innocent man—had to die!?”

 

“He isn’t dead—”

 

“Silence!” Odin commanded.  “Loki, whilst all of that may be true, it does not explain your attempt to _murder your own brother_.”

 

Oh now _really_. Either the old man was going senile or he was being deliberately obtuse.  Surely Odin knew that Loki was _more_ than capable of killing Thor _had he the desire?_  

 

“Thor is not my brother, as you are well aware,” Loki reminded him tersely.  “All familial issues aside, if you are referring to my sending a Destroyer to Midgard…I never intended for it to _kill_ him.  I needed him to return to Asgard—as a _god_ —and endangering his life was the quickest way to make that happen.  I suspected that you, All-Father, would never strip your favored heir of his power without including a failsafe in the event of his impending death, so I used that to my advantage.”

 

Odin’s mouth thinned sourly at having been found out, and Thor looked as though he was struggling to take all of this in— _So much for your lesson in humility_ —while his wife looked quietly triumphant and his mother concerned but curious.

 

“Why did you want your—brother to return to Asgard?”  Frigga’s soft question.

 

Now Loki managed to look suitably abashed, hanging his head as he admitted: “In case something went wrong with the attack on Jötunheim.  If I failed…I needed Thor present in order to protect the realm.”  He sighed, appearing regretful.  “Granting the Frost Giants access to the Weapons Vault served two purposes: It alerted the All-Father of the rising Jötunn threat, and it postponed Thor’s coronation until he was _ready_ to be King.  I would like to mention that, in the months prior, I had expressed my concern regarding both matters to the All-Father but my warnings went unheeded.”

 

His mother shot Odin a searing glare as the King ruefully closed his eye.  Loki nearly smirked but then saw Thor regarding him with a strange expression, one that was reminiscent of a hurt child.  It was a look that he was familiar with, though usually it was he who was wearing it.

 

“Loki…” Thor breathed.  “Did you truly not wish for me to rule?”

 

“Not then, no.”  Firm, truthful.

 

Betrayed and confused, a frown creased the other man’s forehead.

 

“Why did you never say anything?”

 

“Would you have listened?  Can you answer that question honestly, knowing what kind of man you were?”  He finally looked at Thor, really _looked_ at him for the first time since falling into the abyss.  Helet his eyes fill with all of the sadness and disappointment that he felt for the man who had once been his brother.  And _this_ , this was not a lie.  “Or would you have taken offence and demanded that I _know my place?_ ”  He shook his head, inhaling sharply.  “You could make a fine king someday, Thor, and I would be happy for you.  But not today.  Not yet.”

 

Silence was heavy in the air as Loki took a moment to allow his words to be absorbed and to regain his composure.  This was why he only ever flirted with honesty.

 

“I never meant for Thor to attack Jötunheim, nor did I want him banished.  But there was nothing to be done—the All-Father had succumbed to Odinsleep, Thor was gone, Asgard was facing a Frost Giant invasion, and suddenly, I was King.  I felt the need to act.

 

“Admittedly, trying to eradicate the Jötunn race was a foolish endeavor on my part—one largely influenced by anger and a need to prove my capabilities.”  _And erase that accursed part of myself._   “It was irrational, yes, but I feared retaliation from the Frost Giants for Thor’s earlier attack.  Again, I felt that, rather than lose any of our citizens by engaging in combat, it would be better to use the Bifröst _to_ eliminate the Jötunn threat in a single sweep.”

 

Releasing a hard, shuddering breath, his vexation threatening to peak, he continued on.

 

“I told no one of this because I know how little loyalty is felt for me and because such a strategy goes against our realm’s preferred method of attack.  Regardless of the lives that would have been spared, I doubt that many Asgardians would have seen any honor in such actions.” 

 

 _Because unless one is charging head-on into the line of fire, one has no bravery._   Lips pulled taut, thoughts barely refrained from being voiced.  _I sometimes think that ‘_ bravery’ _is by far the kindest word for_ ‘stupidity _._ ’

 

“So you see, I am grateful, All-Father.  I truly am.  To you and all of Asgard.  For, were it not for your blatant favoritism, I might have thoughtlessly followed Thor like everyone else while the kingdom fell to ruin.  Were it not for Asgard’s parochial civilization constantly sneering at intelligence, peaceful negotiation, and covert tactics, I might have never put forth such an effort to master and prove their value.  I might not be as skilled at trickery as I am, and thus would have stood little chance at deceiving the Chitauri.  If I hadn’t endured such a _dearth_ of support all my life, I might have been so arrogant that I lacked the caution necessary to plan for every outcome—including my own failure.  And were it not for the All-Father’s decision to keep my true heritage a secret from me….” His voice grew quiet, reflective.  “…I never would have discovered the Chitauri’s plot against Asgard.”

 

“Loki,” the All-Father said quietly, “though I want nothing more than for that to be true, all that you have given me is your word—and I mean that not as a slight against your honor, but as an indicator of a lack of evidence.”

 

“Father,” Thor began, always willing to believe the best in people.  Fool.  “Have you forgotten the oath he has sworn to the Princess Sigyn?”

 

“I am afraid that her confirmation is not enough,” Odin sighed, and he actually looked regretful.  “While Loki has taken a vow of truth, _she_ has taken a vow of loyalty.  That window could easily allow her to sustain any of his lies.  It grieves me to say it, but I cannot accept his account without stronger validation.”

 

Just as Loki was about suggest a truth serum (not that it would be effective, but Odin didn’t know that), his mother laid a gentle hand on the King’s arm.

 

“But husband, we have our validation.”  The Queen reached into the folds of her stately, white-gold gown and unearthed a necklace.

 

Loki grinned.  Of course.  For all his mother liked to showcase her jewelry, she preferred to keep this particular item tucked away, though rarely did it leave her person.  The necklace’s properties were unmatched and unfailing, and it would glow like burning coals whenever someone told a lie.  Now, with its delicate chain curled around her fingers, his mother held it aloft for all to see: A large amber pendant, winking dimly in the light of the hall.  Beautiful, but undeniably dull and lifeless.

 

“He speaks the truth…” Odin murmured, his lone eye wide.

 

“My brother speaks the truth!” Thor declared jubilantly.

 

At once, the Warriors and the council began to chatter feverishly.  Loki thought that he heard Volstagg say, “You see?  I _told_ you he was never truly malicious” but he couldn’t be certain.  In a single second, his mother had alighted from her dais and thrown her arms around him.

 

“Loki,” she whispered, a hand cradling the back of his head.  “My clever boy…my clever, darling little boy… I am so proud of you.”

 

Without warning, his eyes began to sting.  He quickly pressed his face to his mother’s shoulder, tightening his own embrace.

 

“I’ve missed you, Mother.  I’m sorry to have worried you.”

 

His mother shook her head, gently cupping his face as she pulled back.

 

“Dwell not on that.”  She smoothed her thumb across his cheek.  “You’re here, now.  That is all that matters.”

 

He smiled wanly, suddenly feeling rather overwhelmed.  It was almost a relief to hear the All-Father bring Gungnir down on the floor.

 

“Loki,” he pronounced solemnly. “My…son.  For your admirable devotion to this realm, your indefatigable concern for its continued prosperity, and your magnanimous efforts to protect its people even at the risk of your own life…I, Odin All-Father, thank you.  The Kingdom of Asgard will be forever in your debt.  I hereby clear you of all charges and reinstate your titles, as well as all of the rights and privileges that they entail.  May you never again doubt your place in the House of Odin.”

 

Loki could only nod, face blank.

 

This was where he was supposed to acknowledge the All-Father as a most gracious and compassionate ruler, his head bowed and humbled as he uttered his own thanks with the deepest sincerity.  At the very least, he should have felt proud of himself for getting one over on the entire kingdom—and for the benefit of others, no less.  And yet…he mainly felt indifference.  For truly, what else could the All-Father have done but commend Loki’s fortitude?

 

Ah, well, perhaps it was this bone-deep exhaustion brought about by his latest escapade.  Playing the hero was almost as tiresome and frustrating as telling the truth.  Thankfully, his list of tasks was nearing completion:

 

-       Save Asgard

-       Clear name

-       Get hair cut

-       Apologize to Mother

-       Recompense wife

 

Unfortunately, the third and fourth would have to be reversed, much as he would have preferred to have returned to Asgard sans the greasy mop he currently sported.  As for that last one…well.  It would have to happen sooner or later.  Sooner would be easier.  (That didn’t mean that he was looking forward to it.)

 

Thor being the cheerful, forgiving oaf that he was, was calling for a celebration in Loki’s honor—one that spanned two weeks, at the very least.  Loki could not think of anything he would rather do less, though neither could he recall when last he had felt so welcomed.  Just when he had lost his desire for it… Funny how things worked.  This and the knowledge of what he must yet do left a bitter taste in his mouth, the vinegary remnants of cheap wine.

 

“My thanks, but do not forget, Thor, that your victories on Midgard also deserve commemoration.  As you have much more experience with such things—” He didn’t mean to sound spiteful—well, perhaps a little.  “—by all means, you should partake in the festivities.  I, however, must decline.”  

 

Predictably, Thor began to protest.

 

“Nonsense, Loki—I must atone for ever doubting you—”

 

He held up a hand.

 

“The battle has left me weary, and I would like to retire to my chambers for the evening.”

 

His mother’s necklace began to glow, causing everyone’s eyebrows to arch in surprise.  Loki pursed his lips.

 

“Very well.”  He coughed.  “If I must be honest, I fear that I have deeply wronged my wife with my absence and intend to spend my evening, ah, _making it up_ to her.”

 

Silence while the pendant dimmed, then—

 

“Brother!” Thor exclaimed, laughing heartily as he gave him a slap on the back that nearly brought Loki to his knees.

 

“Haha, as insatiable as a satyr,” Fandral leered giving Loki’s arm a good-natured punch.  Loki winced—honestly, and they wondered why he didn’t care for their company?  And hadn’t they all spent the last several months (or centuries?) loathing his existence?  He supposed that all of that had been forgotten the moment he had proven himself a capable (if unconventional) warrior.  How fickle.  How Æsir.  Thankfully, he would not have to endure it for very long.

 

“Go then, Loki, and tend to your lovely wife,” Thor insisted.  “Later, you will join us in celebration.”

 

“No, actually.  I don’t think I will.”  He carefully detached himself from the group, letting his eyes linger on his mother, Odin, and Thor.  His wife had vanished elsewhere seconds ago, and Loki hoped that he wouldn’t have to track her down.  He was eager to be _gone_.

 

“Despite my loyalty to Asgard, I do not wish to stay.  Frankly, I feel that this realm, though great, has reached a period of stagnation.  It’s an opinion I’ve long held.  I believe that the best way to remedy this is to take my leave before I inevitably wear out my welcome.”

 

Numerous objections were made, all expressing disbelief, disapproval, confusion, and outrage, until the All-Father once again called for silence.

 

“Loki,” he reasoned, both placating and stern.  “I would prefer that you remain here.”

 

“And what would you do, All-Father?” Loki asked, a cool challenge.  “Declare me Prince Regent?”

 

The King hesitated a second too long and Loki narrowed his eyes.

 

“Or would you return me to the cell where I have spent the last five days?  I rather liked it there.  It felt as if it had been made _especially for me_.”

 

“Son or not, without the knowledge that I now possess, I had you confined for the good of the realm.  I do not regret those actions.  Certainly _you_ , of all people, understand the necessity for compromise in the name of universal preservation?”

 

“I’ll admit, it _was_ impressive,” Loki continued as if the King hadn’t spoken.  “The way it very nearly suppressed my abilities…  It must have taken _centuries_ to build.”

 

Silence. Heavy, condemning silence.

 

Loki could feel his mother’s magic begin to flare with rage, and he did not envy the regretful-looking All-Father.  Meanwhile, his once-brother and the man’s friends were all whispering conspicuously.

 

“Thor,” he stated, watching as the thunder god snapped to bewildered attention.  “You have earned your victory.  Go—enjoy it, and please restrain any attempts to talk me out of this.  And if ever you encounter your ‘Avengers’, kindly offer them my apologies—and my thanks.”  He turned on his heel.  “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I would have words with my wife.”

 

Head high, Loki strode to the great doors of the Throne Room’s entrance, his image fading with every step.

 

“Oh, and, one more thing,” he called, a mere echo in the great hall.  “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

Though his schemes typically ended well, rarely was life in general willing to operate in his favor.  So when Loki entered his chambers and saw his wife sitting at her vanity, he wondered if he should be worried that the Norns seemed to have decided to grant him some mercy.  Regardless, at least now there would be no need to embark on a spouse search.

 

For a moment, they simply stared at one another.

 

There were words he had to say yet did not want to, and Sigyn looked as though there were words she _wanted_ to say yet did not know how to voice.

 

“I’m afraid I’m at a loss,” she finally uttered.  “You’re leaving?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, not questioning how she had known.  Sigyn was hardly a gossip, but she enjoyed being on top of everything and knew many a spell that would ensure this.

 

“So soon?” A muted query.

 

“Asgard no longer feels like home.  It never truly did.”

 

“Not even now, when you will no doubt have dozens fawning over your newfound martial prowess?”

 

“I am repulsed by sycophancy.  You know that.”

 

“It _was_ rather impressive, though.  I’m speaking, of course, of your performance today, as battle praxis has never captured my interest.  It wasn’t on par with your flyts, but still it was…noteworthy.”  Her smile was small but sincere.  “Besides, I always enjoy watching the All-Father be proven wrong.”

 

“You never thought me a traitor, then?” he ventured, mildly surprised.  Sigyn knew exactly how far-reaching his power was, knew that he could seize a realm at any time.  And her contempt for him, though it had dwindled to where they could converse amiably as they did now,  should have returned full-force upon hearing of his crimes.  His wife may have sworn loyalty to him, but he doubted that she _cared_ for him.  Just as he doubted that their couplings, though heated, had held any passion.

 

“Mm, not really,” she replied offhandedly, now focused on artfully arranging her hair.  “When I first learned of your activities on Midgard, I tried to make sense of them but nothing added up.  It seemed more plausible that it was all a ruse.”

 

“Thor believed it to be true.”

 

“Thor,” she said measuredly, “is a bit of an idiot when it comes to those he cares for, especially the All-Father.”

 

“Yes, and now it’s clear that Odin always has expected the worst of me,” he noted bitterly, ignoring the glaring implications of her statement as he came to stand behind her.

 

“To be fair, he’s never been comfortable with anyone who can naturally wield _seið_ _._ You know how wary he is of my mother although he never shows it.  It’s just as likely he commissioned your special cell to house her.”

 

“Or someone more powerful,” he ventured, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

 

“Yes…well…” She sniffed airily, changed topics.  “You should visit your daughter.  Apologize for worrying her.”

 

“How is Hela?”  His voice was quiet and strained.

 

“She is well—concerned, but in agreement with me that you haven’t gone mad.  Though your choice of attire suggests otherwise.”  A critical eyebrow, scrutinizing his objectionable armor.

 

“I assure you, it is a Chitauri design and not my own.”  A pause.  “I take it that it wasn’t long before the two of you realized that I wasn’t dead?”

 

“Not influentially long, no,” Sigyn replied.  “Mother has banned you from Valhalla, and when it was clear that you wouldn’t turn up in Helheim…what other explanation could there be?  We assumed you had your reasons for not informing anyone of your survival and left it at that.”

 

At once, Loki felt a true swell of gratitude.  That his wife accepted his children, that she had consoled his daughter, that she and Hela were both so clever…

 

There was a question in her eyes, worrying: _Did I do the right thing?_

 

He replied with a subtle nod.

 

Of course she had.  Powerful though Sigyn was, this was _his_ dilemma; he had refused to drag her into it.  And so, feigning weakness, he had allowed the Chitauri access to his surface thoughts, keeping his mind awash with plans for revenge, conquest, glory—fear at what would happen should he fail.  For their own safety, he had not permitted himself to dwell even for a second on Sigyn, his mother, or his children.

 

“Have you spoken with any of my sons?”

 

“Jörmungand was devastated—hence the upsurge of hurricanes on Midgard—and Sleipnir inconsolable until they heard that you lived, and Fenrir escaped after biting off Tyr’s hand.”

 

“ _What?_ ” he exclaimed, torn between shock and delight.

 

His wife smirked.  “Tyr insisted on escorting me to Lyngvi for my own protection.  After I had told Fenrir of your fate, he became upset.  Then Tyr made a few tactless comments about your character…at which point, Fenrir flew into a rage, slipped out of his collar, ate Tyr’s hand, and fled.”

 

“Remarkable that he was able to escape Gleipnir,” Loki mused, eyeing Sigyn dubiously.  “I had thought the chain unbreakable.”

 

“Well, your offspring _are_ remarkable,” she reminded him.

 

“I take it you, Incantation-Fetter, were so overcome with terror that you were rooted to the spot?”

 

“Of course.”  Her lashes fluttered demurely.  “I am but a weak and simple woman.  When my self-proclaimed defender is being mauled, what else can I do but stand aside and pray for mercy?  Besides, Tyr had it coming; he was forever taunting Fenrir.”

 

“Do you know where he went?”

 

“I couldn’t say,” Sigyn answered but glanced to the golden, Dwarf-forged Brísingamen glinting in her open jewelry chest. Nidavellir?  No, Svartálfaheim, then.  Unlikely that anyone would think to look for Fenrir in the land of those who had crafted the chains that had bound him.

 

“Thank you,” he told her earnestly.  “For caring for my children, even though you are under no obligation.  I cannot begin to repay you.”

 

“There was something about ‘making it up to me,’ as I recall?  You could start there.”

 

It was all too much.  Since his return, Loki had felt it building: everything—every thought, every emotion that he had crushed and stowed away since encountering the Chitauri.  It had reared its head in the Throne Room, but he had suppressed every thought of his wife, his brother, his home—of the family that once was.  Now, it was suddenly hitting him full-force.  His knees felt weak, his breath came short, and he still had to tell her.  He _had_ _to_.  It had nearly ruined him, finding out the truth for himself; he would not do that to her, nor would he allow her to remain a part of an unwanted marriage.  He would be a burden no longer.

 

“Sigyn…” he began.

 

“You’re right,” she allowed.  “Much as I’d relish in seeing how you go about it, I’d rather see you rest.  You look exhausted.”

 

She was being polite.  Though his injuries had healed quickly enough, the Chitauri had delighted in setting his very nerves on fire and the “Hulk’s” beating hadn’t helped.  He hadn’t been permitted to bathe or even change his attire since returning to Asgard, forced to remain in his battered and dust-coated armor.  Making his case to the All-Father had left him utterly drained.  He felt ill and undone, and could not remember when last he slept—a shame to his nearly flawless memory.

 

“I must leave—” he murmured wearily.

 

“You can take the time to rest, first—”

 

“No, _first_ I must tell you something.”  Loki drew a breath, clenching his eyes shut.  “Has…the All-Father spoken to you…of my heritage?”

 

“He informed me that you are adopted, but by Asgardian law, adoption into the ruling family officially makes you a member of both the Æsir and the nobility.  Ergo, our titles and citizenships are still valid.”

 

Loki had to smile a little at that.  Trust his wife to focus on power and position, rather than a family’s deceit.  Then again, the Vanir were known for their promiscuity, their fertility, and their large families as a result of both.  He knew for a fact that, of Sigyn’s nine sisters, five (at least) were half-siblings, yet they were all deeply devoted to one another.  Perhaps a lack of blood-ties simply wasn’t an issue for her.

 

He doubted that would be so once she knew the truth.

 

“Odin did not tell you of my _true_ family.  I figured as much.  Asgard would have his head if word escaped...”  Loki paced, feeling slightly sick and pressing a hand to his stomach.  It made him think of Sleipnir and Hela—would Sigyn still care for them once she knew?  He thought of how bearing children repulsed her, despite her heritage, and how he had never told her that he would have carried their get himself when they were ready for parenthood.  No woman would deign to have children with him if they knew what he was.

 

“I am not an Æsir.”  A choked admission.  “Not by birth.  My father, my…my real father…was…Laufey.  King ofJötunheim.  I…I am…”

 

Sigyn had grown stiff, her eyes wide.

 

“But… _how?_ ”  She nodded, indicating his appearance.  “You look nothing like—”

 

“A glamour.  Nothing more.”  A strangled laugh; he was unraveling.  “I was creating illusions before I even had the sense to know what they were.  So adept am I at lying, I even fooled myself.  Surprising that it held; I’ve long thought that I bear little resemblance to most _Æsir._ ”

 

“Why are you not taller?” Sigyn pressed.

 

Loki sneered.

 

“It is for that reason I was abandoned.  I am a disappointment even to my own race, and was left for dead during the Jötunn-Æsir War.  The All-Father found me, thought he could make an example of me, mould me into the quintessential golden warrior—as proof, perhaps, that he could civilize a culture of savage, bloodthirsty monsters.”  He gestured dismally to himself.  “Obviously that plan fell through.  Or else, that was what he wanted all along: A submissive foil to Thor that he could put on the throne of a fallen race to ensure that they would never again be a threat.”  Loki shook his head.  “Either way, I imagine he intended to keep the truth from me.  I found out when I came into contact with a Jötunn after Thor dragged his friends and myself totheir realm.”

 

His wife leaned further into her chair ( _Away from me_ ), as if she expected daggers of ice to fly from his hands, impaling her upon the plum-colored velvet.  But she was also desperately contemplative, eyes scanning him like she was trying to piece together what she knew of her husband to what she knew of Frost Giants.

 

“Is that why you tried to eradicate them?” she pursued.

 

“Perhaps, partially,” he admitted.  “Though, as I said before, my main reason was I felt it the best solution to a potential threat.”  He swallowed with difficulty, trying to be nonchalant, and thus turned to begin packing.  “No matter.  You no longer need concern yourself with the likes of me.  Soon enough, I’ll be on my way, and you’ll never suffer the humiliation of having married a monster.”

 

“What are you saying?” Sigyn asked quietly.

 

So accustomed to keeping his emotions in check, Loki found it easy to distract himself, gathering various tomes and treasures into Mundgerd, the carved leather satchel accommodating anything he desired.  He refused to even spare a glance toward any trinkets or portraits because, _sentiment_.  Books proved to be somewhat difficult—all highly valued by himself and his wife, every one of them cherished and scribbled in and poured over in equal measure.  Would it be fair of him to rob her of such knowledge?

 

He would likely have more use for them, wherever he was going.  Sigyn was pragmatic.  She would understand if he liberated a few texts.

 

But he found himself wavering when he reached the wardrobe.  _What to take…?_   The obvious answer should have been anything that belonged to _him_ , and it should have been just as apparent which clothing was his, but this…this wasn’t like the books, this was different, this was something they _shared_.

 

Memories—mutual delight in knowing a fellow accomplished shape-shifter; eagerly swapping articles of clothing; Sigyn’s suddenly long, encompassing hands deftly lacing up Loki’s corset; braiding black, waist-length hair with a woman’s practiced expertise; Loki coiled in Sigyn’s lap and Sigyn not caring if his partner looked like his husband or his wife, content to hold either one.

 

Loki stared at the rows of silks and cashmeres, silvers and scarlets, teals and greens, golds, aubergines, lush furs, imposing headdresses, polished and sturdy boots, and dainty little slippers… What was his and what wasn’t?  For decades, he had enjoyed their shared taste for dark, rich hues and elegant court dress, secretly relished in finally having someone he could _share_ _with_. 

 

And now…

 

“Did you think this was just another _excursion?_ ” he spat, suddenly rounding on her.  “That I was taking another _jaunt_ and would return after a decade or so of wandering the realms?  No.”  He gravely shook his head.  “This is permanent.  I am leaving Asgard, and in doing so, I release you of your marriage vows.”

 

Sigyn blanched.

 

“You mean—?”

 

“You stated that you would remain my loyal wife, for as long as I would have you.”  Loki halted.  _I no longer want you.  I… I no longer…_ It was useless.  Even without Sigyn’s _seið_ binding his tongue, it would have been difficult to recite the lie.  “I will no longer have you,” he told her instead.  “As a wife, or anything else.”

 

“What’s to become of me?”

 

“Whatever you decide.”

 

“And that’s it?”  Sigyn’s voice dipped low, suddenly stronger, more scathing.  “You will turn your back after casting me aside like a hackneyed _trinket?_   And yet you went to _such lengths_ to _obtain_ me—”

 

“Would you have married me, had you known?” Loki hissed, rounding on her.  “Would you have willingly married a _Frost Giant?_ ”

 

“If memory serves me, I was never willing to marry you _in the first place!_ ”

 

“Exactly,” he agreed, glad that she was seeing reason.  “Which is why I am granting you your freedom—”

 

“‘ _Freedom!?_ ’” she repeated, outraged.  Then laughed.  “So now I am a _thrall_ or a _pet?_   Well, I suppose that _is_ a step up from trinket.”  Sigyn’s eyes were practically smoldering and Loki could sense her energy as it rapidly throbbed to its peak.  Once, he would have reveled in it; now he tightened his hold on his own _seið_ , not wanting it to become swept up in hers.  He needed to leave, he reminded himself.  If Sigyn could not see that he was trying to do what was right, then so be it.  Perhaps it would be better if he left with her curse at his back.  It would help shatter any illusions he held of her seeing him as someone worthy of her friendship, if not her love.

 

“Is that a credit to your ‘heritage?’” his wife sneered.  “That you view women as prizes to be won?  The Frost Giants Thrym and Thiassi thought that of my mother and sister—I suppose it must be so.  Even now, you continue to act as though I am yours to treat as you please.  Well hear this, _darling_ : Vow or no vow, had I ever the desire to leave you, _I_ _would_ _have_ , whether you had decreed it or not.”

 

Loki knew this, just as he knew why she had stayed.  It had never truly bothered him, then or now.  No, what piqued his resentment was the comparison to his loathsome brethren, the fact that she was _right_.  The only difference was that he had succeeded in stealing his Vanaheim treasure where Thrym and Thiassi had failed.  And no, he had given little mind to her feelings, thinking only of how ideal a union theirs would be.  Sigyn would understand that eventually, he had told himself—had been telling himself for centuries.  Now, after the revelation of his true parentage, thoughts of his behavior curdled like milk, leaving his mouth sour with shame and disgust.  He _was_ like his kinsmen—he was _worse_ , for he had refused to relinquish his ill-gotten gain. 

 

Still, he didn’t need the reminder.

 

Vexed, Loki slung Mundgerd over his shoulder; he could find new clothing.

 

“You are ignorant of what you say,” he spat as he stormed past her.

 

“No, husband, it is you who are ignorant.  You speak as if you are being selfless, yet it is clear you have not given a single thought to what this will mean for _me_.  I will lose my _title_ , my _status_ —I will lose any influence I have gained in Asgard—assuming I’m not sent back to Vanaheim.”

 

“You loathe Asgard,” Loki reminded her snidely.

 

“That is irrelevant.  Here, I am a princess as I was meant to be, before your false father combined our realms and effaced the Vanaheim monarchy.”

 

“Trust you to have your priorities in order,” he muttered.

 

 “As if you are any better!” she snapped.  “That’s what our marriage is about—what it has _always_ been about: What we can glean from one another.”

 

“Of course.”  Loki bared his teeth, feeling vicious.  All of the fury and indignation that he felt toward his family reared up and aimed for liberation at his wife’s expense.  “Of _course_ ,” he repeated.  “I should never have expected it to be anything more than that.  You endured my presence because you hoped there would be something to gain.”

 

“Which was the reason you gave for _marrying me!_ ” Her voice was tight, quivering, and ended on a shout.  Loki ignored her words, instead letting his grin flash like a knife blade.

 

“No better than the All-Father.”

 

Sigyn’s eyes were naught but dark slits.  Her command was cold.  Final.

 

“Get out.”

 

So be it.  His affairs had been effectuated and were now completed.  With a final look at his wife, Loki disappeared in a blink of light.

 

Sigyn need not know that his parting words were not directed at her.

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

It was only after he had decided to settle on Midgard that Loki realized that Sigyn had failed to mention Svadilfari and his master in her tirade against Frost Giants.

 

Impossible that she could have forgotten.

 

He chose not to dwell on it.

 

* * *

  _Bittersweet and strange…_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Skeltāri_ – relates to the Old Norse word _skáld_ , which typically refers to those who wrote and recited poetry. However, when mentioned with _níð_ or _níðingr_ , to _skáld_ is like the Norse version of giving someone a  scolding. Only much louder, more intense, and derogatory. _Skeltāri_ refers to the person delivering the verbal bitch slap.
> 
>  _Níðingr_ – is what you called someone who’d been branded as _níð_ , or basically a dishonorable villain. _Níðingrs_ were seen as vile outcasts who only lived to cause harm. They were despised by everyone for committing acts of cowardice, treason, and betrayal, such as killing their kinsmen or innocents. In addition, they were also often considered pathological liars and associated with _seiðberender_ (practitioners of _seiðr_ /magic) because both were viewed as cowardly and weak, thus they must be one in the same.
> 
> “…a mother’s overwrought sympathies” – originally, I didn’t intend for Odin to be so sexist toward Frigga, but [this deleted scene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5sTE8d5Vuo) from _Thor_ made me change my mind. For the record, with both the film and this story, I think that Odin is saying that emotions make people weak, not that women are weak.
> 
>  _Veslingr_ – is an Old Norse insult meaning “puny wretch.”
> 
>  _Ergi_ – another Norse insult meaning effeminate, weak, and/or cowardly. For men, it also meant that a guy was the submissive partner in a homosexual relationship. While boy-on-boy wasn’t that big a deal in Viking culture, being the bottom was. For women, it referred to someone who was excessively lecherous to the point of being borderline insane.
> 
>  _Seið_ – basically the Norse word for magic. It was mainly practiced by women, as it was seen as social suicide for a man to take an interest in anything that didn’t involve fighting, killing, or sex. Men who practiced _seið_ were often seen as weak (which lead to their also being seen as _ergi_ ) as well as deceitful because they were resorting to trickery, fighting from a distance (or maybe not even fighting at all!). Because blindly charging head-on into battle and hoping (nay, knowing!) you’ll slaughter your opponent is much more honorable and heroic than taking a stealthy and logical approach.
> 
> Everyone Blames Loki – this is a nod to the original myths, where Loki is frequently blamed for things that aren’t his fault. Though, since things usually are his fault, it’s sort of understandable. On the other hand, it’s still a debatable subject, as it’s difficult to tell when Norse mythology starts being mediated by Christianity and Loki becomes the Norse equivalent of Satan. Uncyclopedia has an [entertaining article](http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Loki) on the subject.
> 
> “‘Bravery’ is by far the kindest word for ‘stupidity.’” – yet another _Sherlock_ reference; specifically, it’s another Mycroft reference. Because he’s Mycroft and he is everywhere.
> 
> Frigga’s necklace – I’ve only ever seen this mentioned twice, and the sources were not entirely reliable. But supposedly Frigga has a necklace that acts as a lie detector and lights up whenever someone is being untruthful. If anyone has any information on it, please let me know.
> 
> Gleipnir – is the name of the chain(s?) used to bind Fenrir. It was crafted by a gang of dwarves from Svartálfaheim. It gets a special mention because it was allegedly made from mountain roots, a woman’s beard, the footsteps of a cat (…), fish breath, the sinews of a bear, and bird spittle.
> 
> Nidavellir – land of the dwarves.
> 
> Svartálfaheim – land of the “dark elves,” but dwarves apparently hang out there as well and some theorists pose that “dark elf” is just another term for “dwarf.”
> 
> Mundgerd – as far as I can tell, there aren’t any bags of holding and/or magical satchels in Norse Mythology. So, I decided to give Loki one myself (it certainly seems like the sort of endlessly practical, magical thing he’d have). “Mundgerd” is a Nordic name meaning “protection” or “protective space.”


	3. Chapter 3

At first, the Midgardian’s expressions are so persistently frozen that it takes a moment to realize that something is amiss.  Then, the small, dark-haired girl starts screaming.

 

“Jesus, Clint!”

 

“Director’s orders,” is the bowman’s plainspoken reply.  Bowman...bow…arrow…oh. 

 

It would appear she has been shot.

 

There is a distant impression of the sounds of a verbal uproar before the world begins to slow and fade.  Strange…

 

“Jane, calm down.”

 

“How can I calm down, Natasha?  He _shot_ _her!_ ”

 

“Hey, I was just following orders!”

 

“That’s what the Nazis said!”

 

“Fury told me to do it—yell at _him!_ ”

 

“Nazi!”

 

“Besides, you think a _god_ can’t handle an arrow to the chest?”

 

“Thor said she wasn’t evil!”

 

“Yeah, but Thor didn’t say _anything_ about her having _devil_ _horns_.”

 

“Tony, don’t you start—”

 

“Dude, she was _glowing_ , holding a fucking magic _wand_ , and calling herself _power_ _incarnate_.”

 

“I’m with Robin Hood on this one.  Call me crazy, but I just don’t trust chicks who dress like the evil fairy from _Sleeping Beauty_.”

 

“Stark…”

 

“‘Robin Hood?’ _Seriously?_   That’s the best you’ve got?”

 

“…‘Katniss?’”

 

“Director Fury, you _really_ thought it was necessary to shoot our ally?”

 

“I don’t have to defend my actions to you, Dr. Foster.  But frankly, I have _had it_ with these mother-fuckin’ gods on this mother-fuckin’ planet!”

 

“What do we do now—?”

 

“Man, Thor’s gonna be _pissed_.”

 

The yelling becomes somewhat garbled, then.  Shortly after that, everything goes black.  Ah, the arrow must have been tipped with a tranquility draught, otherwise she would not be feeling so light-headed so quickly...  Nor would she be lying on the ground… When had that happened…?  Well, this doesn’t bode well at all, does it?  And to think, she came all this way to…something… Damn.

 

Signing as well as she can with an arrow in her chest, Sigyn gathers what little of her wits remained to determine the best course of action.  Her _seið_ should be put toward mending her wound and extracting its cause… But in her current state, that would drain what is left of her energy and leave her unconscious and vulnerable before these hostile Midgardians.  Prolonging the healing process, however…three days, at most… Yes.  A restorative sleep to take care of her injury, and a protective charm to inhibit anyone from touching her, any tools from marring her skin… Yes… Yes, that should do it.

 

Before allowing her enchantments to take hold, Sigyn hears one of the mortals—the little brunette, she believes—sardonically remark to her cohorts:

 

“Yeah, cuz I’m sure Loki will be just _tickled_ when he finds out we shot his _wife_.”

 

 _Loki_...!?  Oh, _well_.  It all makes sense, now, doesn’t it?

 

* * *

.•°*°•.

* * *

 

When next Sigyn awakens, she discovers that she is lying on the thinnest, most uncomfortable bed in existence and that there are three pairs of eyes staring at her.  Also, she appears to be being kept prisoner in some kind of cell made entirely of glass.  Really, for all their alleged pleas for her aid, these Midgardians seem desperate to provoke her wrath.

 

“Idy, she’s awake!” one of her visitors exclaims in a whisper.

 

“We can all see that, Nanna.”

 

“Well, I was only—”

 

“Be nice to her, Idunn—”

 

“Thank you, Snotra—”

 

“—she can’t help it if she excels at stating the obvious.”

 

“ _You_ —”

 

“You know,” Sigyn finally announces, “if I wanted to listen to you three termagants squabble, I would have stayed in Asgard.”

 

“I am _not_ a termagant,” Snotra protests, while Nanna envelopes Sigyn in a hug and Idunn breezes over all of them, saying:

 

“Well, if you _had_ stayed in Asgard, you certainly wouldn’t be in this mess.”

 

“Oh _please_ , Idy,” Snotra cuts in.  “We all know that if the situation were truly dire, you would be panicking and sending for the Valkyries.”

 

“And noshing your braid,” Sigyn reminds her, smirking as Idunn scowls (unconsciously reaching for her ever-present rope of pale, golden hair).

 

“So, my sisters,” she begins, “as I am in no danger, what brings you to Midgard?”

 

“Oh, we’re not _actually_ here.  We’re a projection,” Nanna explains in a whisper.  Though, given Nanna’s perpetually breathless voice, Sigyn wonders if it could truly be classified as a whisper.  “Idy didn’t trust me on the paths of Yggdrasil,” she concludes.

 

“With good reason,” Idunn mutters.

 

A pout adorns Nanna’s bow lips.  Her eyes are wide and pitiful, the horribly trite but undeniable shade of forget-me-not-blue. Despite her actually being the third youngest, Nanna has always made people reminiscent of small children: One either wants to cuddle her or smack her across the face, depending on how unbearably adorable and/or pathetic she’s acting.  Yet it is seldom that Nanna inspires feelings of exasperation and maternity in Idunn, as the eldest is displaying now.

 

(In the back of her mind, Sigyn knows that she has no right to criticize.  She can be just as much of a put-upon matron as Idunn—but only when it’s _necessary_.  Such as when Loki escaped from Gerroid, or after that eating contest in Útgarð, or the time he— _damn_.)

 

Idunn turns to her, explaining that “Well, you know how I feel about Heimdall—”

 

“I still say he has better things to do than spy on bathing maidens, but go on.”

 

“—we simply wished to reassure ourselves, and the rest of our family, that you are _safe_.”

 

“And to heckle you for getting captured so quickly,” Snotra adds with a faint grin.  Her eyes—small but as dark as Sigyn’s own—glint with subdued wickedness.  She has always been quiet and clever, rarely demanding attention—much like Sigyn herself, though they are several decades apart as Snotra is the youngest.

 

“You haven’t extended that heckling to any of my captors, have you?” Sigyn asks, sitting up to better assess her situation.  Imprisoned.  Still clothed.  No scepter.  And her headdress is gone.  Odd.

 

“There wasn’t much reason to.”  Snotra shrugs, pushing her light, ash-blonde hair behind her ears.  “Your protective enchantments have kept them rather busy.”

 

“Really, Sigyn, placing an itching charm on your scepter was uncalled for,” Idunn scolds. 

 

“It must have been incredibly potent if even a man made of _iron_ was affected by it—he was ready to chew his own hands off!”  Nanna’s eyes are, somehow, even wider than usual as she tugs at her honey-colored locks.

 

Sigyn scoffs.  “Better he lose a limb than try to tamper with my scepter.  You know these mortals aren’t ready for that kind of power.”

 

“Apparently, you weren’t ready for _them_.  One shot, honestly!” A quick hand pressed to her mouth muffles Snotra’s tittering.

 

“Oh _hush_ ,” Nanna hisses.  “As if you aren’t relieved to know that our sister is safe!”

 

“Clever that you thought to enchant your clothing, as well,” Idunn remarks.

 

“Yes…and _interesting_ ,” Sigyn ponders, eyeing Idunn suspiciously, “that I made certain my _seið_ encompassed my _clothing_ , but not my _headdress_.”

 

Her eldest sister sniffs, inspecting her nails.

 

“Mayhap your _seið_ finds your headdress as ridiculous as we do.”

 

“Mayhap _you_ ha—”

 

“Sig, could you at least explain what you’re doing here?” Nanna interrupts.

 

They all stare at her.

 

“Oh, _Nanna_ …” Idunn sighs.

 

“I went over this before I left,” Sigyn reminds her.

 

“Yes, but I’m afraid your reasoning was a little…vague.  In that way that everything about you is…vague.”

 

“She has a point,” Snotra agrees, nodding.

 

“Oh you know our sister,” Idunn drawls.  “She only does it to seem more attractive.  ‘I am Sigyn, Aloof and Mysterious.  Aren’t I captivating?’  You know, that nonsense.”

 

“I am _here_ because I was _invited_ ,” Sigyn cuts in loudly.  “The Midgardians require my aid.  Or so I assumed before one of them shot me.”

 

“Fair enough, but this seems rather spontaneous for you, and you don’t do spontaneous,” Idunn points out.  Her eyes are the same shade as Nanna’s, but they have always been sharper, clearer, more calculating…and now they regard Sigyn carefully.  “This is to do with that wastrel husband of yours, isn’t it?  He was last known to have settled on Midgard.”

 

So alike, she and Idunn.  They each possess a sense of maturity and responsibility that, over time, has forged an unspoken bond between the two of them.  The older woman is undoubtedly her favorite sister…and simultaneously the most irksome.  For there are things that no amount of empathy will make Idunn understand, no matter how deeply it may run or that it be born of blood.  Nay, it is that very loyalty that _prevents_ it.

 

“Perhaps,” Sigyn finally answers.  “Or it could be something else entirely.  My only option is to wait for the mortals to tell me.”

 

“So that’s it?” Snotra inquires.  “You’re going to…wait?”

 

“You’ll find, sister, that I am highly adept at waiting.”

 

“Ah- _ha_!  I sense an ulterior motive!” Nanna crows in a rare moment of insight.  Snotra’s eyes go wide just as Idunn’s narrow.  _Damn_.  Sigyn raises her hands, palms open, in a pacifying gesture of surrender.

 

“I’ll admit, when my brother-in-law spoke of the innovations that Midgard has made, my curiosity was piqued.  Of course, with my duties tripled as they were thanks to the absence of both princes, Asgard neither could nor would not allow me to leave solely for the pursuit of _knowledge_.  Nor could I use Yggdrasil, as now my disappearance would surely be noticed…  Imagine my delight when I was informed that my presence was required in this realm.  And so, here I am.  Intent on increasing my knowledge, as ever, and if that entails making myself amenable to these mortals, so be it.”

 

And damn again if Idunn doesn’t still have that eyebrow raised.  But it is Snotra who speaks first.

 

“No offence, sister dear, but being amenable is not your forte.”

 

“No,” Idunn suddenly corrects her.  “No, that’s not true.  People find Sigyn amenable enough—even _amiable_ , at times.  It’s only after spending a lengthy duration with her that they realize she’s a frigid, controlling _harpy_.”

 

“Your confidence in me is a _stoun_ ding, Idunn.”

 

“So…you’re really going to go along with this just so you can find out if mortals have, what?  Finally learned proper hygiene?”  Nanna wrinkles her nose in confusion.  “Are you not worried?”

 

“Why should I worry?” Sigyn asks.  “I’ve taken far greater risks in the pursuit of knowledge.”

 

“And considering the fact that we overheard those mortals and _this_ —” Snotra raps her knuckles against the glass walls of the prison. “—seems to be the best they can do, I doubt they pose much of a threat.  Let her have her fun, Idy.  She lost her husband only to learn that it was just another one of the wretch’s nasty tricks.  I can’t imagine how disappointing that must have been,” she says, turning to Sigyn with touching, frustrating sympathy.  “If she wants to play with the mortals, I say let her.”

 

“Here, here!” Nanna cries.

 

Idunn rolls her eyes but seems to have capitulated.  With a sharp look at Sigyn, she demands, “You’ll contact us if you get into trouble, yes?  You’ll send word?”

 

“Don’t I always?”

 

“No,” all three chime.  So, what, they’re all rallying against her, now?  Honestly, her sisters would never survive in politics, not with the way they constantly switch allegiances.  Now Sigyn, on the other hand, takes after theirbeloved grandfather.  She knows when to stand her ground and when surrender meant success.

 

“Fine,” she submits.  “I give you my word: The second things go awry, I’ll do everything in my power to let you know.”  Ah, the benefits of being wedded to the God of Lies.  Omission, ambiguity, and evasion become second nature.  Not even her sisters pick up on the loophole that she has left herself: Nanna and even Snotra the Wise merely smile and nod their satisfaction.  Worries soothed, curiosity sated, already they are preparing to take their leave.

 

Except Idunn.  Of course.  Though Sigyn loves the woman for knowing her so well, so also rather hates her for it.  While their younger siblings kiss her goodbye and then flicker out of existence, Idunn remains where she is.  So solid that, were she not so attuned to _seið_ , Sigyn would question just how much of her sister is present…if she is truly an illusion at all.

 

As it stands, Idunn _is_ but an illusion.  And she is giving her this skeptical, contemplative look that says that she saw that hole in the loop and she _knows_ that there is more to this than what she was told, even though she has no proof.  It makes Sigyn feel vulnerable and defensive in a way that she won’t allow to be seen.  Her frustration, however, that she will make known.  Her sister did steal her hat, after all.

 

“Idunn,” she sighs blandly, “don’t you have some apples to pick?”

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

For all his spontaneity, Tony doesn’t care much for surprises.  Now, the occasional Playboy Bunny hopping out of a cake, tickets to a clothing-optional roller derby—that’s all good.  Finding out his friend and surrogate dad tried to off him?  Not so much.  Learning that his hot new assistant is actually a hot super spy?  That…actually, that’s kind of in the gray area.  On one hand, it’s an upgrade, because now he gets to see Natasha in a skin-tight, black leather cat suit.  On the downside, being a super spy means she can split him six ways to Sunday.  And will.  And has.  Geeze, you steal _one donut_ —how was he supposed to know that the maple-glazed cinnamon roll was for her?

 

Anyway, waking up and finding that his favorite coffee mug has magically disappeared is annoying and unexpected, but not enough to fall in the ‘Bad Surprise’ category.  However, later learning that the magical disappearance of said mug is much more literal than he’d realized?  Bad Surprise. 

 

Finding out that his mug has magically disappeared because it’s been mug-napped by the (allegedly) all-powerful alien Viking princess who’s supposed to be their prisoner?

 

Terrible, horrible, no good, seriously we’re talking _Godfather III_ -level of Bad Surprise.

 

Tony had arrived at SHEILD headquarters around mid-morning to take another crack at activating Princess Di’s deadly pimp cane, armed with a lethal weapon of his own: finely crafted work gloves infused with adamantium—definitely _not_ oven mitts, no matter what Bruce says.  If the design was _inspired_ by that, well, Tony’s not telling.  And if it keeps the itching at bay, who cares?

 

The thing is, as he was headed toward Bruce’s lab, he had passed their little princess’s holding cell.  Lo and behold, the woman had awoken—and they hadn’t even needed a prince to make it happen.  Which was just as well since Thor would probably be uncomfortable doing it, Jane wouldn’t _let_ Thor do it, and getting Loki to do the honors would mean telling him that they’d sorta-but-not-all-that-accidentally shot his wife with an arrow.

 

Anyway, at first Tony supposed that it was good that she was awake.  The tranq. that Clint hit her with was _not_ supposed to last for three freaking days, no matter how god-worthy extra-powerful it was meant to be.  Frankly, the team’s been getting kinda worried, especially since all they’ve had to go on is Thor’s unhelpful “IT IS POSSIBLE SHE HAS UNDERGONE A HEALING SLUMBER.  FEAR NOT, MY FRIENDS, FOR I HAVE OFTEN WITNESSED MY BROTHER USE SUCH MAGIC.  SHE SHALL REAWAKEN WITHIN THE WEEK.”

 

(When Thor talks, you just know it’s in all caps, whether the guy is yelling or not.)

 

So their prisoner/charge/possible ally is up.  Great.  Thing is, once Tony had taken a closer look, he’d realized that she wasn’t just _up_ , she was—still is—up and _about_.  The chick is _active_.  She’s changed clothes, styled her hair (blonde, really; he hadn’t figured that), and is currently sipping from an unfairly familiar-looking coffee mug with the words “Queen Be(atch)” emblazoned on its side in bright purple paint.

 

As much as he’d like this to be a symptom of a hangover, he knows it’s not (not when someone’s been pilfering his bar; he suspects Natasha). 

 

And, _urgh_ …she’s using it to drink tea— _tea_ , of all things.  The only beverage that that mug should ever contain is the pure, black brew that is St. Helena’s finest.  And maybe a little something to Irish it up.  Y’know, every once in a while.

 

Yeah, Tony knows that the fact that she’s drinking tea isn’t really the issue here.  That would be where she _got_ the tea, how she got _his_ mug, etc., when she’s supposed to be locked up tight in SHIELD’s giant snow globe.  Which _he_ , Tony, helped _build_ , by the way, which means it should be _flawless_ and therefore spell-sucking and inescapable.  But, magic.  Tony hates magic.  Sure, Thor insists it’s just an advanced form of science, but Tony’s calling bullshit.  There is no science that can explain how an alien goddess was able to magic herself a Get Out of Jail Free card to go make some tea, there just _isn’t_.

 

And, oh shit, she’s spotted him. 

 

Normally, Tony welcomes it when bombshells like this (and bag of cats crazy or not, Loki sure can pick ‘em) look at him with that coy, hungry expression.  But Princess Maleficent here looks like she actually wants to _eat him_.  And the worst part about that is, it probably isn’t out of the realm of possibility.  Now, Tony’s all for taking the so-called impossible, proving it wrong, and rubbing his victory in its face, but this?

 

Fucking magic.

 

But Tony decides to play nice (for now).  It isn’t like she’s actually _committed_ any diabolical deeds (yet), and her introductory spiel about power aside, Thor has insisted that she’s the kind, nurturing, sisterhood of the traveling lemon type.  But then, this is the same guy who also swore that his little bro _wasn’t_ an egomaniacal supervillain bent on world domination.

 

Okay, yeah, that had turned out to be true.  But that doesn’t erase the memories of being thrown out a window or having his tower nearly destroyed.  And that’s to say nothing of his missing socks.  Which, for the record, are _still_ MIA.

 

But anyway.  Someone, at some time (possibly _Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood_ ), taught him the importance of making a cordial acquaintance.  Or some shit like that.  Whatever.

 

( _Note to self: Make a lot of Mister Rogers quips around Steve._ )

 

So he gives her a smile that isn’t too forced and waves.  Grinning like an advert for Shark Week, her gaze never wavering (shit, she’s gonna eat his soul, he knows it), the goddess inclines her head, raising ~~her~~ _his_ mug in silent acknowledgement.

 

And, oh, that’s cute.  That’s really cute.  Yeah, this chick is definitely Loki’s squeeze.

 

Unwilling to waste another second risking being vaporized or turned into a wombat, Tony pulls out his phone and texts Natasha.  Hey, she’s always harping on him about taking responsibility for _his_ actions, and this idea— _her_ idea—is a plotline worthy of an _I Love Lucy_ episode.  Okay, maybe not.  But still. Zany scheme, red hair…  It fits, kinda.  Well enough to give Tony an excuse to start referring to Natasha as ‘Lucy’ ~~behind her back~~.  He supposes that makes Jane ‘Ethel’ and Clint ‘Ricky.’  Or maybe Clint’s Ethel and Jane doesn’t figure into it at all?  Because otherwise Thor is Fred, and that doesn’t make _any_ sense.  Either way, Tony knows that he could rock a pompadour way better than Clint could.  And besides, he already has a mental image of Natasha whining about how Tony never lets her save the world, then coming up with a harebrained plan to get involved by hiding inside Tony’s electronic conga drum.

 

Tony suspects that he might have been zoning out when he realizes that their royal captive is giving him an expectant look.

 

Oh, right, _phone_.

 

He quickly fires off a text to ~~Lucy~~ Natasha that reads:

 

_Rally the troops.  Sleeping Beauty’s awake._

_PS: She stole my mug._

 

He looks up to see the Viking princess shaking her head at him, lips pursed in disapproval before she very clearly mouths the word ‘ _Snitch_.’

 

Tony thinks his arc reactor skips a beat.

 

Yeah, he really hates magic.

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

By the time the Avengers have assembled, it’s become fairly obvious that the Princess Sigyn is only staying in her prison to…what?  Humor them?  Whatever the reason, Jane’s pretty sure the god could escape if she wanted to and she doesn’t seem to mind if they know it.  Not if the fully stocked bookshelf, Persian rug, and forest green chaise longue are anything to go by.  According to Tony, those weren’t here when he arrived; just the new outfit and his mug.

 

She knows better than to say it out loud, but _that_ little incident definitely earned the goddess points in Jane’s book.  It’s not that she doesn’t _like_ Tony.  She admires him as an inventor and greatly respects the contributions he’s made to the scientific community.  But if he comes anywhere near her lab again, so help her…

 

One thing she does not approve of, however, is the way that their would-be ally has been popping up in random locations all over SHEILD.  She hasn’t really _harassed_ anyone; just criticized their efficiency, switched all of the coffee for tea, and somehow gotten everyone a membership to the New York Public Library, claiming that books were just as important as firearms.  But considering the fact that many of the agents here are already on edge due to the nature of their work… Jane figures that it can’t be good for their stress levels.  Plus, it’s kind of insulting to the woman’s guards, who both insist that they have never _once_ seen her leave her cell.

 

So, yeah, while Jane is pissed at Fury for hijacking _her_ project and locking it up for “observation,” she’s kind of pleased that, so far, it hasn’t worked out very well for him.  Though hopefully this doesn’t make an alliance impossible.  (Another thing Jane knows not to say out loud is that she was glad to hear about Sigyn’s magical protective barriers that keep anyone from experimenting on her—because that is _so_ what SHEILD was planning to do and they know it.)

 

Now she, Natasha, Thor, Tony, and Director Fury are all standing outside the princess’s cell, staring in at her intently.

 

“You said she was a Viking Suzy Homemaker,” Tony finally says, glaring accusingly up at Thor.  “A friggin’ _hausfrau_.  She was supposed to use her sugar-and-Spice Girl powers to send Loki into a diabetic _coma_ , not steal my stuff!”

 

Thor, who Clint had accurately predicted was and is still thoroughly pissed, all but snarls at him, “Your organization is holding a member of Asgard’s royal family captive and _you_ stand there expressing selfish concern for material possessions!?”

 

“Not my organization, buddy.  They just take advantage of my generous financial and philanthropic contributions. And my _concern_ is for the fact that, if she can swipe my mug, what the hell else can she do?”

 

The princess blinks and an array of colorful throw pillows appears inside her cell.

 

“Oh,” Jane murmurs and she sees Fury’s scowl tighten.

 

“Sigyn!” Thor calls.  “How do you fair?”

 

Though the intercom they’re using to communicate with the goddess is state-of-the-art, Jane suspects that that isn’t the reason why, when Sigyn responds, it sounds as if she’s speaking directly into Jane’s ear.

 

“As well as can be expected, considering…”  The princess’s dark eyes roam her prison and her lips curl in distaste.  “Might I inquire as to _what_ I’m _doing_ here?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Fury cuts in before Thor can answer.  “These little…displays of power?  I get it.  You want us to know you’re a force to be reckoned with.  You want us to fear you and treat you like a god—that’s the same stunt your husband pulled, and I’m _still_ unimpressed.”

 

Princess Sigyn leans forward.

 

“Frankly, my good man,I don’t hold you in very high regard, either.  I came to this realm believing that its people were in need of succor that only I could provide.  Upon arriving, I endeavored to warn you of _exactly_ what kind of aid you sought—because _I am_ a force to be reckoned with.  Yet instead of respect and gratitude, I was greeted with hostility and thrown into a _cell_ like a lowly _miscreant_.  I tolerate neither rudeness nor prejudice, and _you_ have exhibited _both_.  Consider yourself fortunate that my…‘little displays’…are _all_ that you have witnessed.  And if you deign to answer my questions, it shall remain that way.”

 

“Sigyn,” Thor interrupts in a slightly reproachful tone, “true, my mortal friends have wronged you, but there is no need to frighten them—and certainly not with empty threats.  Accomplished _völva_ though you are, your use of _seið_ has always been benign.”

 

“As far as you know, brother-in-law,” she replies.  “Magic can be used for things other than healing and parlor tricks.  And some _seiðmenn_ are rather modest when it comes to their exploits.  However, knowing Midgard’s proclivity for coveting and abusing power, I thought it best to warn them before striking an accord.”

 

This is something Jane has been wondering about ever since she started researching Princess Sigyn.  Really, when a person has a name that means “Victory woman” and “Incantation fetter” is their epithet, how can they be anything _but_ intimidating?  Granted, Jane isn’t clear on what that nickname actually means, but whether Sigyn can bind other gods’ magic, deflect spells, or break curses (or all three?), it all sounds pretty impressive.  Besides that, (and why hasn’t Thor realized this?) from what she knows of Loki, he’s _un_ fettered, mercurial, and prone to playing pranks or traveling when he isn’t holed up in a library.  So why would the God of Chaos (among other things) hook up with a meek little _doormat_ , let alone _marry_ her?

 

Which is why, when Sigyn first arrived and started going on about unspeakable power and being forewarned, Jane had wondered if the goddess wasn’t simply letting them know what they were getting into.  Natasha had agreed but explained that Clint and Fury were both kind of paranoid when it came to Norse gods with big, glowing scepters and control issues.  It seems that the only reason Thor is an exception was because he’s so likeable.  (Jane suspects that the lack of magic helps, too.)

 

“So I ask,” the goddess says, “why was I summoned?”

 

Silence.  Fury is still scrutinizing their captive, a hand held up to keep Thor and herself quiet.  Jane looks to Natasha, but the other woman’s concentration is devoted to Sigyn, and Jane knows that the redhead won’t act until Fury gives the order.  Tony, amazingly, keeps his mouth shut, though Jane imagines it’s probably because being Loki’s wife and a mug thief automatically puts you on the guy’s shit list.  And on the other side of the glass, the goddess sighs.

 

“Very well.”

 

She closes her eyes as if in deep meditation, fingers tented before her face.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Jane sees Fury stab a button with his index finger.  She barely has time to realize what he’s done when a bolt of plasma fires from the cell’s ceiling.

 

It stops only an inch away from Sigyn’s face, seized by the princess’s dainty hand.

 

Jane gapes (as does everyone else, she imagines) because the thing is, it isn’t like the goddess has erected a force field around herself.  No, she is actually, literally _holding_ a blast of extremely hot, highly energetic matter _in her hand_.  Her arm just shot up—without looking, flinching, blinking—and she _snagged_ it.  And she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, just irritated at Fury’s nerve.

 

A look to Thor tells Jane that even _he_ appears to be mildly surprised.  He’s probably seen people do this before, but never his sister-in-law.  Huh.

 

“Now,” the Princess Sigyn begins, voice low in a way that promises carnage, “if one of you would be so kind—answer me: _Why_ was I _summoned?_ ”

 

Fury shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat (it’s really a security blanket, Jane’s theorized, because he’s never seen without it).  He tilts his head back, giving the goddess the once-over before he seems to reach a decision.

 

“It’s about your husband.”

 

The princess arches her perfectly manicured brows.

 

“Oh?  May I ask why you’re interested?  I was under the impression that he no longer required Midgard’s assistance.”  And if she didn’t say _that_ just to burn everybody.  Jane may not have been trained to read people like Natasha has, but she’s pretty sure that the faint quirk of Sigyn’s lips is a good indicator that she’s right.

 

And now the princess is playing with the plasma.  She’s actually rolled weaponized energy into a ball and is tossing it from hand to hand.  From a scientist’s perspective, Jane finds this is fascinating.  From a normal human being’s, she’s kind of paralyzed with fear.

 

“Sigyn,” Thor says, “though I have seen no evidence of it, my mortal friends claim that my brother, your husband, has been sending trolls after them.”

 

A beat.  Then—

 

“Oh, for… ‘ _Troll-_ ing,’” Tony sighs, exasperated. “He’s been ‘ _trolling_ ’ us.  It’s an Earth idiom, euphemism, transitive verb—something like that.  The guys you’re talking about?  Live under bridges and have a rainbow assortment of hair colors?  They don’t figure into this.  _Basically_ ,” he goes on, now turning to Sigyn, “your husband’s being a little shit.”

 

The goddess blinks.

 

“Your point?”

 

Tony cocks his head, brows rising in surprise.

 

“Huh.  I might like you after all.  But you still got your god-germs on my mug.”

 

Sigyn gifts him with a knowing wink and Tony stiffens for reasons Jane doesn’t understand.  Then Natasha, clearly fed up with the man’s complaints, cuts in before he can say any more.

 

“Loki has been targeting Thor, myself, and our associates since he returned to Earth.”

 

“Nothing more than his usual tricks,” Thor tries to assure the princess.  “Unfortunately, mortals take them quite seriously.”

 

“Turning all US currency into Monopoly Money _is_ serious,” Natasha seethes and then stomps on Tony’s foot before he can whine about his missing socks.  She turns back to Sigyn.  “His ‘ _antics’_ haven’t caused any permanent damage— _yet_ —but they could potentially distract us from maintaining the safety of the planet.  We were hoping, as his wife, you would be able to reason with him.  Thor’s informed us that Loki’s less prone to cause problems when’s he’s—”

 

“Gettin’ jiggy with it,” Tony supplies, and this time Natasha smacks him upside the head.  Jane’s torn between snickering and cringing (it _did_ look pretty painful).

 

“When he’s with a woman.  Namely _you_ ,” Fury clarifies. 

 

“We were hoping that you would agree to cooperate with us and negotiate with Loki if and when we track him down,” Natasha elaborates.

 

“‘Negotiate,’” the goddess echoes, sounding amused as she rolls the plasma between her fingers.  “Is that what they call it on Midgard, nowadays?  I assume you _are_ referring to sensual partaking of the flesh?”

 

“Sigyn, that is not appropriate language for a princess of Asgard,” Thor warns her but the goddess waves him off.

 

“As if you are any better with your wenching—but then, as a _prince_ of Asgard, that is expected of _you_.”

 

Thor looks annoyed but Jane sees him shift uncomfortably before he says, “I renounced such behavior upon meeting my lady Jane.” And he puts an arm around her waist for emphasis.  Before she can feel upset, Jane gives herself a mental lecture on cultural differences and concludes that, well, as long as he’s given it up for good…

 

“Forgive me,” Sigyn says.  “I forget not everyone is as unreserved as the Vanir when it comes to carnal matters.”

 

“Ooh, say that again,” Tony insists, looking positively giddy.  Trust Tony Stark to go from bemoaning a woman’s existence to wanting in her pants.  Luckily, Sigyn gives him a look that makes her refusal clear.

 

“Are you willing to work for us?” Fury presses, ignoring Tony.

 

“ _With_ you, possibly,” Sigyn replies.  “But not without the warranty of a quid pro quo.”

 

“Now say ‘ _Good evening, Clarice_ ’—do it, come on,” Tony demands and Natasha swats him.  “What?  She’s in a glass cell and everything!  You can’t _not_ expect me to—”  But whatever he says next is lost as Natasha drags him away.

 

“I would offer to release you in return for your services, but somehow I don’t think that’d be worth your while, Power Incarnate.”  Fury gives Sigyn a pointed look and the princess responds by dipping her finger into the plasma, bringing it to her mouth, and tasting the glowing substance with a satisfied smile.  “Right.”

 

“What about this: You release me, provide accommodations suited to a member of the royal family, and refrain from any inquiries regarding my magic.  This includes direct questions, covert investigations, and experimentations, as well as demands for ichor and tissue donations.  And when I say ‘you,’ I refer to yourself, your agents, your organization as a whole, and the team of ‘Avengers’ that I’ve heard so much about.  In exchange, I will make an effort to speak with my husband and make him see reason.”

 

“Sigyn,” Thor begins, no doubt prepared to reprimand the woman for being so paranoid, but Fury talks over him.

 

“If you agree that, _when_ you make him ‘see reason,’ you’ll talk him into forming an alliance with SHIELD, then we have a deal.”

 

“Not until I see it in writing and am given my own copy of the documentation,” the princess commands.  “Furthermore, I am not opposed to casting a binding spell to make certain that you keep your word.”

 

Fury holds up a hand.

 

“That won’t be necessary.  I’ll have someone draw up the papers.  In the meantime—” He reaches over, presses a different button, and the cell door slides open. “—these two will get you set up.”  He nods to Thor and Jane, then looks a little smug when he adds, “She can stay in Stark’s tower.  As the closest thing America has to royalty, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

 

With that, Fury makes his exit, leaving Jane to stand there awkwardly as Thor sweeps his sister-in-law up in a hug that, from the sound of it, definitely merits the description “bone-crushing.”  Once released from the embrace, the imposing goddess (geeze, she’s tall; was she always this tall?) gives Thor a weak smile and then turns to stare at her.

 

That’s when Jane realizes that she hasn’t said a single word throughout this entire ordeal.  Between watching Thor and Fury try to out shout each other, Natasha abuse Tony, and Sigyn play with plasma (speaking of which, where did it go?  …did she eat it?), there hadn’t been much of an opportunity.  Well, that’s pretty rude (and here she’s always getting on Thor about being polite).  It’s made worse by the fact that Sigyn is a _princess_ and is therefore used to the (literal) royal treatment.  And they’ve hardly given her a proper welcome.

 

It is for this reason that, when she finally speaks to Princess Sigyn, Jane says the warmest, friendliest thing that comes to mind:

 

“So.  Wanna join us for Movie Night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fury references _Snakes on a Plane_ – I had to. Sorry (not sorry).
> 
> Sigyn’s Sisters – whether it’s because the information has been lost to history or simply because she wasn’t a prominent goddess, very little is known about Sigyn. One goal of this story is to remedy that, hence giving her a culture and a family. Who’s to say that Sigyn didn’t hail from Vanaheim and have tons of siblings? Besides, in the original myths, Thor and Loki weren’t brothers, adoptive or otherwise. That said, I deliberately chose equally obscure goddesses to be Sigyn’s sisters, with the exception of Idunn for plot reasons, as you’ll see later.
> 
> The Traveling Lemon – for those who caught the _Cabin Pressure_ reference, good for you; you have wonderful taste. For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, you may hold off on reviewing until you’ve managed listen several episodes. It’s hilarious.
> 
> Additional Note \- I also wanted to mention that, with my being involved in quite a lot of this year's Thanksgiving preparation, I might be a few days behind schedule in posting the next chapter. That said, happy holidays to those who celebrate it!


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

_So still, so bright…_

* * *

 

The brilliant skies of the golden realm had grown dark with clouds.  Not of the black, ominous ilk that rolled swiftly with the threat of a storm to ravage lands and demolish homes.  These were gray and bleak, promising nothing but desolation.  The streets were flooded with an unending mist.  Finer than fog, it brought a sharp, wracking chill that seeped into one’s very bones.  There was no looming fear of war, plague, or monsters…yet doors and windows were tightly sealed and mothers were reluctant to allow their children out of their sights.  And why shouldn’t they be?  The All-Mother was in mourning.

 

Odin was at a loss—regretful, ashamed, conflicted.  His wife had every reason to grieve, never would he tell her think to otherwise…but his inability to console her ( _it had been his fault_ ) ignited his frustration.  Frustration because it made him feel helpless.  An attribute unfitting for a king.

 

A part of him had been relieved when Frigga, unable to bear the sight of him any longer, had fled to Fensalir, cloistering herself in her private palace and refusing audience with everyone.  It was only after the clouds and cold had grown intolerable that Odin had dared to call on her.

 

The sight of Syn at the gate had made his heart sink.  He had known, then, that he would be granted no entrance and that Asgard would remain wreathed in a frigid haze.  The statuesque goddess’s shapely figure made her seem soft, her eyes were such a pale shade of gray that at times she appeared blind, and her deep red hair brought to mind individuals of a capricious nature, but Syn was as loyal as Heimdall and as resolute as the Princess Sigyn.  The latter, Odin supposed, made sense.

 

“If you cannot let me pass, may I at least ask after my wife’s health?” he had inquired.

 

“She is well enough, Your Highness,” Syn had replied in her patient, dulcet voice.  “Eir and Fulla are dutiful attendants.  More importantly, they are devoted friends.”

 

“And with you as her personal guard, I have no need to fear for her safety,” Odin had pronounced with admiration.

 

“I do my best, Your Highness.  The Queen’s protection is always my foremost concern,” she had replied.  For all Syn’s modesty, Odin knew that she would never allow harm to come to Frigga.  It was another case where that delicate beauty was deceptive, for Syn was a warrior worthy of the Valkyrie.  Again, it made sense, all things considered.

 

“May _I_ ask, Odin-King,” the guardian spoke up, “how fairs my sister?”

 

Odin had chosen his words carefully, not wanting to sound accusatory.

 

“She has donned the proper attire, but in truth, I have witnessed no change to her countenance.”

 

“Stoicism is a marked trait of the Vanir, Your Majesty.  How else might we maintain our dignity?”

 

A flicker of a smile had graced her lips, Odin was certain of it, but he had had neither evidence nor cause to accuse her of insolence.  Instead, he had merely nodded, saying, “She is quiet.”

 

“She usually is,” Syn had returned.

 

“She appears uncertain.”

 

“Of herself?”

 

“Of something.”

 

The guardian’s eyebrows rose, just a fraction, and Odin had known that that had been as close as the woman would come to admitting that, yes, that was unusual.

 

He wondered now if the young princess’s uncertainty stemmed from an internal discord: To uphold her Vanir composure or to openly mourn the death of Asgard’s second prince?  Or perhaps it was a question of whether she _should_ mourn for someone she hadn’t truly cared for?

 

Odin knew better than to admit out loud that _that_ was what troubled _him_.  Frigga would never forgive him (would she even forgive him _now?_ ) and Thor… Though he was a strong and diplomatic king, either feared or respected by all of the Nine Realms, Odin did not think he could take seeing another son wear that expressing of betrayed, uncomprehending anguish.

 

It did not change the fact that Odin had not yet wept for Loki.

 

This could have been credited to the fact that he was a warrior, one of the finest caliber—hardened by the carnage of war, he no longer had it in him to cry.  But _Thor_ had cried; not publicly but Odin had seen the redness in his son’s eyes and heard the raw weight of grief in his voice.  Odin could have claimed that this was because Thor was young yet, still inexperienced, but he knew that wasn’t so.

 

He was _conflicted_.  More than anything, he was conflicted.

 

 _Not a good thing for a king to be_ , he chastised himself.

 

Loki was his _son_ , and Odin had always loved him—of this he was certain.  No matter what the boy had insisted in his fit of sorrow, Odin knew that his love had never faltered.

 

But that statement tasted a lie, if only faintly.  And the House of Odin had suffered enough tragedy thanks to his falsehoods ( _Frigga was right, she was right all along, we should have told him from the beginning_ ).  Now he had to be honest, if only with himself: Odin may have loved Loki, but he had never truly _liked_ the boy.

 

It began, Odin was ashamed to admit, when Loki was still but a small child.  Even then, as unfair as it was, Odin had been on edge around him.  If it wasn’t due to the boy’s Jötunn heritage, it was the thrum of his _seið_ which Odin had felt since the moment he had lifted the babe into his arms.  Adult _seiðmenn_ made him uneasy—so to think of something so small and fragile with _that much_ _power_...  And the child was a natural shape-shifter, at that.  It had made Odin wary, and as a warrior, such a feeling was unacceptable.

 

It had been for this reason that Odin had had less of a hand in Loki’s upbringing than he had in Thor’s.  

 

He supposed that it all stemmed from the aftermath of the Æsir–Vanir War.  To be sure, having Freyja instruct him in the art of _seið_ was an undertaking that Odin would never regret, not when there had been so much to gain from it.  But for all his power, he would never be able to wield as much magic as a natural _seiðmann_.  Freyja, even with her wanton ways and luxurious lifestyle, could grind him into _dust_ with merely the blink of an eye.  To the citizens of Asgard, the war had ended with Vanaheim’s surrender, but any Vanir would insist that it had been a _truce_ that had stopped the feud and united the two realms.  Then-King Njörðr had stated that he had wished to spare lives and negated Odin’s insinuation that, with such power at their disposal, the Vanir might have won.  The sea god had proclaimed “‘Tis not in our nature to fight, Odin Borrson!”  But there had been an unspoken utterance: _Be grateful for that_.

 

So to have a Jötunn, runt or not, with the gift of _seið_ living in his kingdom?  Only compassion for a helpless child and the certainty that Asgard would deter any interest in sorcery had convinced Odin to adopt the boy. 

 

He had made no attempts to dissuade Loki from practicing sorcery—had, in fact, selected the finest tutors to (control, subdue) refine Loki’s talents.  But Odin had never outwardly encouraged it.  Instead, he had urged Loki to take up a sword, an axe, a spear—something worthy of a _warrior_ , that didn’t involve lurking in the shadows or turning his opponent’s weapon into cheese (not that Volstagg had minded).  The little throwing knives had been a bit disappointing, but Odin had still allowed them.  At least those were actual _weapons_ , and Loki had truly seemed to enjoy using them.

 

But even with the knives, Loki had been reluctant to fight.  Understandably, it had greatly vexed the warrior king to hear that Loki had missed his training, to have to force his son to attend something that even the girl Sif wanted to partake in.  How many times had he had to drag the boy from the library, hardening his heart to the tearful protests?  It had been difficult (and yes, embarrassing) to watch his youngest compete, seeing him tire quickly and stumble, felled with one blow.  Loki _had tried_ , only to be defeated time and again… Thankfully, Thor’s accomplishments had been so exceptional that they had usually overshadowed any of Loki’s failures. 

 

But that hadn’t lessened the sting as Odin had previously thought, even though he had never (openly) held it against his youngest.  He had thought it better to call attention to Thor’s success and make no mention of Loki’s faults, lest his youngest feel like he was being criticized.  Perhaps later, on the occasions when Loki had come to him disheartened and begging to be taken out of training—“ _Please, Father.  I am surely wasting the trainer’s time, and I worry that I am bringing humiliation to the name Odinson._ ”—Odin had assured (insisted? assumed?) that he _would_ improve _in time_ and until then, he could look to his brother as an example.

 

For the first time since the beginning of his reign, Odin wondered if he was truly capable of watching over his kingdom when it was only now that he realized how easily his advice could have been misconstrued.  _Had_ been misconstrued.  Horribly.  Devastatingly.

 

_Oh, Loki…_

 

Yet Odin still couldn’t bring himself to like the boy.  As Loki had neared adolescence, they had grown apart, sharing very few interests.  Where Odin enjoyed fighting, feasting, and splendid displays of virility, Loki had preferred more scholarly pursuits, feminine arts such as practicing sorcery…and turning himself into a woman.  Thankfully, Odin, Heimdall, and Loki himself were the only ones privy to that last stunt.  According to the gatekeeper, whenever the second prince had visited the taverns, he had had an easier time finding company for the evening whenever he took on a woman’s form, quickly gaining the affections of the more…liberal maidens (and more than a few men, Odin had noted with disapproval).  His son would always resume his rightful shape come morning and no one was any the wiser, but _all the same_.  It had been a shockingly brazen act and not once had Loki expressed any shame or regret, appearing only to thrill in getting away with his deviant trysts.  Yes, Odin himself was a passable shape-shifter, but he had never gone _that_ far.  Why ever had Loki _wanted_ to?  What if he had been _caught?_   Had he _wanted_ to give everyone more reason to call him weak, feminine, _ergi_ …?

 

Perhaps he had?  It was yet another thing that Odin disliked about his youngest: Rather than continuing to try and prove everyone wrong, Loki seemed to have given up—a man of Asgard and a prince, giving up!  Worse yet, Loki had gone out of his way to prove everyone _right_.  Never indulging in food or drink like a warrior, always choosing to negotiate rather than fight, never getting his hands dirty (literally; Frigga had loved that the boy was so clean), and always turning his nose up whenever Thor and his friends would boast about the number of enemies they had slain.  It had incurred a great deal of criticism and vexation from the people of Asgard and Loki had at first defended himself, been called a liar and a fop, then eventually taken to sneering at the barbs, refusing to be bothered instead of defending his honor.

 

At some point, Odin now realized, whatever contrition Loki had felt before had turned into bitter resignation, and he had dealt with the public’s disappointment as best he could—by mocking it.  It was a method of defense that Odin had never considered acceptable, but he was beginning to think that it might have been one of the few that his son had possessed.

 

Regardless of Odin’s continued support in the matter, that likely hadn’t made it any easier for his son to endure the taunts.  In the eyes of his peers, it was bad enough that the boy was a _seiðmann_ , wasting his time with so-called parlor tricks, but he was an inadequate fighter as well.  Few were willing to be seen with him lest they too be looked down upon.  Was it any surprise that Loki had chosen solitude (or had he accepted being ostracized?) and taken to using cutting insults as a means of protection?

 

Odin sighed.  Perhaps they should have sent Loki to Vanaheim for schooling, as Frigga had suggested.  There, his _seið_ would have been appreciated, his studious nature advocated, and the Vanir were an androgynous enough race that perhaps they wouldn’t have even batted an eye at the presence of ‘Lady Loki.’  The boy might have had friends of his own instead of tagging along with Thor’s circle.  He might have felt a sense of _belonging_ —and hadn’t that been the (main) reason why Odin had kept Loki’s true heritage a secret?  For all the good it had done; Loki had still been an outsider. 

 

It all came back to sorcery.  When Frigga had first proposed giving Loki a Vanir’s education, Odin had rejected the notion almost at once.  His son, he had maintained, could learn everything he _needed_ to know in Asgard and it wouldn’t bode well if they encouraged Loki to dabble in the womanly practices (all the while he had been secretly paranoid at the thought of anyone cultivating Loki’s steadily growing power).  Their son would eventually adapt to the ways of a warrior, Odin had assured his wife, and if the boy experienced any ridicule or isolation, well, it would only be because he had brought it upon himself.

 

But that had all been for naught, as well, hadn’t it?  Yet another plan that his youngest had unknowingly thwarted.  In spite of everything, Loki’s _seið_ had flourished until he had become one of the most powerful sorcerers in the Nine Realms.  Not that many knew this.  For whatever reason, Loki had never been one for the flamboyant displays so common in Asgard, preferring to keep to the shadows (something Odin had been privately thankful for).  But while the boy had never gone against his explicit orders, he had still defied Odin’s unequivocal desires.

 

And that was the indisputable fact of the matter: Odin cared very little for those who made him uneasy and those who defied him, and Loki had been guilty of both. 

 

Not that his son had known this, which was why Odin had decided to ignore most of Loki’s conduct rather than see him punished.  To do so would have been unjust. 

 

It still hadn’t made it any easier to like the boy.

 

However, Loki had not been without commendable merits.  Though the Æsir tended to put action before education, Odin had been pleased with Loki’s academic performance.  With Thor, asking him to show any interest in foreign policies was the same as asking him to dive into a snake pit (though Thor would have likely enjoyed that).  Loki had been a far better diplomat, certain of his own realm’s eminence but eager to know more about the ways of others.  Better still that he had been such a tactful and eloquent speaker (when the occasion called for it).  Nonetheless, a silver tongue was invaluable when it came to the politics of a monarchy.  And Loki had had other noteworthy attributes, as well.  A level head, resourcefulness, a strong sense of responsibility—all admirable qualities in a king.

 

Alas, it was not meant to be, not in Asgard.  The throne Hlidskjalf was never intended for anyone but Thor.  Yet Odin had wanted to edify Loki, raise him as a civilized Jötunn among Æsir, and then install him as the king of Jötunheim (loyal to Asgard, never a threat) following Laufey’s demise.  As time had worn on and Loki had become more and more of an anomaly (more powerful, more defiant), Odin had found other reasons to withhold the truth about the boy’s heritage.  Perhaps, he had ventured, if Loki were married off to a high-born Æsir maiden?  And after his son had shown to be a devoted and loving husband, Odin would reveal that Loki had been born a Frost Giant.  It would have proven that Asgard’s enemies could be reasoned with and maybe put them on the path toward a solid union with Jötunheim.  Certainly, it had been a plan worth contemplating.

 

Then Loki had married Sigyn.  Sigyn Freyjadottir.  Of Vanaheim.

 

‘Tricked her into it’ was a more accurate description, as the girl had apparently rejected Loki’s earlier proposal.  Furious and humiliated, Odin had unleashed a rage that had conjured a sky-splitting lightening to rivaled even Thor’s, making all of Asgard tremble.

 

Granted, his anger had been more for show than anything.  While he had certainly been displeased, he had acted largely out of concern for the possibility that Loki’s actions would reignite the war with the Vanir.  In Vanaheim, if a marriage wasn’t a celebration of passion and fertility, it was purely transactional.  Either way, it was almost always a planned affair.  But in Asgard, it wasn’t unusual for an Æsir man to spontaneously steal himself a bride.  It wasn’t so common as to be counted as tradition, but it happened often enough that it was accepted.  It was more of a game than anything.  Brides even seemed to take great delight in the prospect of being ‘kidnapped.’  What Odin’s youngest had done wasn’t very different if one ignored the fact that it had been more subtle than aggressive as per Loki’s style, and that most couples spent _at least a year in courtship_ prior to the staged abduction.

 

His son had apologized for causing ‘such a stir’ (Loki’s exact words, Norns help them) but then asked them all how they could ignore the benefits of such a match.  The then-Lady Sigyn possessed all of the qualities one sought in a royal marriage.  Had the Vanir monarchy been extant, she would have been a princess by birth, and her mother was still Freyja the unofficial Queen of the Valkyries; her uncle Freyr, King of Alfheim; and her grandfather Njörðr, the once-King of Vanaheim.  In addition, the girl was valuable in her own right: intelligent, respectable, fertile, and even pleasing to look upon.  Most importantly, now none would question the alliance between their two realms.

 

No matter that all plans for an Asgard-Jötunheim alliance had been eliminated (or had Odin been privately relieved, his secret still safe?).  The King had forced himself to be calm, listening to Frigga’s soothing assurances that Loki couldn’t have known.

 

For the good of Asgard, his youngest had insisted.  It had always been for the good of Asgard.  It was one aspect in which Loki and Thor had been much the same.  Loyalty to their realm, wanting only what was best.  But perhaps Loki’s devotion had been born out of something more selfish?  A constant need to prove himself a true Æsir, to determine his worth?  And what if he succeeded?   Would he have at last satiated that desperate desire to belong?

 

It made Odin wonder, now, if that was why Loki had wanted Sigyn, specifically, as his wife.  She was a sorceress, like all of Freyja’s daughters.  And those born with _seið_ , Freyja had once told him, could sense those who were like themselves.  Their fellow feelings for one another were often near immediate.  Was it possible that his son, having finally felt something familiar, had been unable to let it go?  Or had the girl radiated a power that Loki had been unable to resist?  For a time, there had been the rumors of a daughter of Freyja who was a gifted _völva_ , one who could supposedly cast infrangible spells and break those thought to be unbreakable.  Freyja never refuted the stories, though neither would she reveal the child’s identity for fear that someone would steal the girl for their own nefarious cause.  But she had given herself away the eve of Loki and Sigyn’s wedding, demanding to know “Was this _your_ doing, Glapsviðr?  Did you decide there weren’t enough exotic treasures in your Weapons Vault, so you had to take my daughter!?”

 

Hearing this had brought the return of every worry that Odin had ever held for Loki’s magic.  He had had no proof, and he had not wished to think ill of his son (however often he was inclined to), but that did not quell the suspicion that a Jötunn’s corruption might simply be inherent.

 

Yet nothing had come of it, not even the faintest hint that the Princess Sigyn was the malicious spell-breaker.  Aside from her occasional displays of simple, benign magic and the gossip that had followed her scandalous marriage, the girl could have just as easily been a tapestry: beautiful to look at, but easy to forget.  And his youngest and his daughter-in-law were distant with one another, both prone to disappearing for decades at a time.  As far as anyone could tell, the marriage between Asgard’s sorcerer prince and the Vanr maiden had never even been consummated.  Eventually, Odin had allowed himself to release his anxiety.

 

But always was there the threat of Loki’s children.

 

Odin could never think of them as kin, though he had always made an effort to see them as more than the monsters the Norns insisted they were.  They were still the get of his son, and sorcerer or not, Loki had been a sweet boy before the bitterness had set in.  There was always the chance that his offspring had inherited that original demeanor, regardless of their appearances.  But still, Odin had ordered them all to be bound, one way or another.  No one ever put much stock into the Norns’ tales anymore—not when they were so unreliable and could be so vastly interpreted—but Odin had not wanted to take any chances.  Loki had been allowed to keep Fenrir until the wolf had grown to the size of a small horse, then Odin had had him exiled to Lyngvi, placing the chain Gleipnir around the beast’s neck and binding him to the island.  Though many would have supported it, Odin hadn’t thrust a sword into Fenrir’s mouth as a gum-prop; it would have been too cruel, and he couldn’t keep from remembering how unrestrainedly happy Loki had looked with the wolf-pup licking his face.

 

Even if he didn’t fulfill his role in Ragnarök, Jörmungand had needed to go to Midgard.  Odin, Loki, and the serpent himself had all agreed on this.  And Odin hadn’t so much exiled him as he had _accommodated_ him.  Eventually it had become clear to all three of them that, one day, there simply wouldn’t be enough room in Asgard.  To anyone’s knowledge, Midgard was the only realm with a body of water large enough to house a giant snake.  It had saddened Loki, but he had seemed to take comfort in knowing that his son was contented.

 

Following Jörmungand had been Hela, Loki’s youngest.  She had a kind enough disposition, yet the majority of Asgard hadn’t cared for her.  Odin supposed they couldn’t be blamed; for all the bizarre creatures lurking in the Nine Realms, there was just something off-putting about a little girl who was half-dead.  The patches of skull peeking through sparse, brittle hair; ashen, puckered skin stretched tight over bone; a green eye clouded with the film of death…  Loki and Frigga had never thought much of it, and Odin recalled hearing the Princess Sigyn tell an aghast Sif, “Oh, _really_.  It’s not as if she truly _reeks_ of decay.  And I’d have thought you warriors would scoff at a little death.”  But the people of Asgard were not swayed by the opinions of three royals.  Knowing that she would be forever regarded as a pariah, Hela had not balked at Odin’s kind suggestion that she relocate to Niflheim to preside over her own realm.

 

Sleipnir was Loki’s eldest child and Odin’s finest steed—and that was how each of them saw him.  Conceived long before the second prince had met Angrböða or Sigyn, the mighty stallion would have made a tricky case even without four extra legs.  Asgard was not unaccustomed to men (shape-shifters, _seiðmann_ ) bearing children, but it was an occurrence strange enough to warrant the disapproval of many.  That Loki had borne Sleipnir was what most (Odin himself, at times) chose to remember, nevermind that it was a price the boy had paid to ensure Asgard’s protection and glory.

 

The realm had needed a wall; no one had argued that.  But the only mason capable of erecting one quickly and sufficiently had demanded an impossible price.  Asgard needed Freyja to lead the Valkyries and without the sun and moon, the skies would rot.  They had been at an impasse.  Until Loki, barely an adolescent then, had suggested they meet the builder’s impossible price—on the condition that the man could meet _their_ impossible deadline.  If, using only the aid of his horse Svaðilfari, the bricklayer could finish the wall in three seasons, then he would be paid as he desired.

 

(In that moment, Odin had felt a rare swell of approval for his youngest, now certain that Loki would make a fine advisor when Thor took the throne.)

 

Nearly three seasons later, Odin had begun to regret those terms.  It had become apparent that, in one day’s time, the mason would complete the wall—three days before his deadline.  Asgard would have its magnificent fortification, but it would lose three of its most treasured assets.  No one had dared cast blame upon the son of the king, but the accusatory murmurings had flitted throughout Odin’s halls, regardless.

 

In what, Odin now assumed with a sharp ache in his chest, had been an effort to make his father proud, Loki had stepped forward and offered to right his terrible oversight.  Taking the form of a mare, the boy had lead Svaðilfari away and kept the animal distracted for hours.  There had been no news of him until late the following morn, when he had materialized in Thor’s chambers, bruised and shaking, and promptly collapsed from exhaustion.  Infuriated, Odin’s eldest had crushed the mason’s body, snapping limbs like fine porcelain.  All with no details as to the origin of Loki’s injuries or whether the bricklayer had caused them.  However, as it so happened, the man had been a Jötunn, however, so no one had made much fuss.  And most had been too focused on the state of the second prince.  Odin and Frigga had intended to keep it quiet.  Curled weakly in his mother’s arms, Loki had begged for their silence between hitched breaths and fevered pleas that he hadn’t anticipated (wanted) it but he hadn’t been _violated_ , Thor, please don’t harm Svaðilfari.  Alas, word had still escaped (excluding Eir, all healers were unapologetic scandalmongers).  Though Frigga had taken Loki into hiding before he had shown any signs, the rumors had been easy to accept, given the boy’s penchant for sorcery.  Turning up a year later with an eight-legged colt in tow had been more than enough confirmation for the people of Asgard.

 

And so, Odin had suggested that Loki give Sleipnir to _him_ , present his father with a gift that promised to be the greatest of stallions.  To spare the boy the humiliation, Odin had reasoned.  To dispel the rumors and save his family from embarrassment (so he had said).

 

It had been wrong.  Odin knew that now just as he had known it then.  Loki had been so young at the time, and Odin had taken advantage of his child’s vulnerability, used the boy’s need for acceptance and fear of disapproval, twisted it to convince him that he would be doing what was best for Sleipnir.  Because he had seen the potential in his son’s first born.  A powerful steed such as that should have been the mount of a noble warrior—surely the horse would have been wasted on a _seiðmann?_

 

Not a horse, Odin reminded himself firmly, not _just_ a horse.  But a living being who could learn and feel and think for himself.  That much had become so clear in the days since Loki’s fall.  Sleipnir was mourning his father’s death, growing listless, unresponsive, hardly eating.  Odin’s sigh was deep and grave as he stood outside Sleipnir’s private stable, remembering how Loki had insisted that it and a paddock be built—and closer to his own chambers.

 

“He is my _child_ , father,” Loki had said, “and I’ll not have him raised in the care of your brutish equerry.”  He had punctuated this by pulling Sleipnir closer and the little foal had happily nuzzled his side.

 

Now the great steed knelt upon the cold, stone floor, as if weighed down by his grief.  But not alone.  Draped in the shadows of night, the widowed princess leaned against Sleipnir’s side, gently stroking his dark mane.  Their backs to the entrance, neither noticed Odin’s presence.

 

“I know not why he did what he did,” she murmured into the horse’s silken ear.  “I know not why he did many things.  But he loved you, and your sister and brothers.  Never doubt that.”

 

Sleipnir nickered softly, forlorn.  Odin had never known the horse to speak, but he had often caught Loki conversing with him.  The two had seemed to share a silent, intuitive form of communication that Odin had assumed had to do with a blood-tie.  Now hearing the Princess Sigyn talking to Sleipnir, the King wondered if _seið_ was the reason (or had he, Odin, simply never chosen to listen?).

 

“Yes,” Sigyn agreed, running a hand down Sleipnir’s nose.  “He would have, if even his supposed _friends_ had given him the chance.”

 

The horse gave a quiet snort, sounding almost indignant as he tossed his head.  Sigyn nodded, considering.

 

“No… I suppose Asgard never would have accepted a _seiðmann_ on the throne… Is that why you didn’t choose him to be King?”  The lady turned her head, not truly looking at Odin; enough to acknowledge his intrusion whilst making it clear that _that_ was exactly what it was.  The Father of All was not welcome.

 

It was to be expected, Odin supposed.  Most of the Vanir held at least a grudging sort of respect for him (he had, after all, be most generous to them).  Freyja, on the other hand, had always been horribly flippant (Odin suspected that lowering himself to have a _woman_ teach him _magic_ —and while he wore a _dress_ —had much to do with this).  Thankfully, her daughters weren’t nearly so brash, though it was clear that none of them feared him, either.  Freyr was amiable enough (becoming King of Alfheim might have soothed the burn of losing Vanaheim), yet he followed the rest of his family in never addressing Odin as ‘All-Father’ or any of his more respectable titles.  It was always ‘Borrson’ or ‘Borrson-King,’ if they were feeling generous (‘Hnikarr’ if they were feeling petty).  But Njörðr was the worst, always gifting Odin with an amused, almost pitying smile, as if to say, _Oh, you silly little man_.

 

As much as he was loath to admit it, Odin was beginning to worry that the sea god was right.  With each passing day, he felt increasingly in the wrong, and this fueled a dull resentment for Loki (though he knew the anger to be misplaced).  It was unacceptable for a king to feel this way—a king should be omnipotent, lionhearted, indomitable, confident.  Damn Loki for making him question his own actions—damn this uncertainty—and damn him _self_.

 

“How could you?” Frigga had asked in a voice thick with tears.  “I care not what you _meant_ , you should have _known_ how he would take it.  You, the great orator—of all the words you could have uttered, how could you have told him _no?_ ”

 

He didn’t know, just as he didn’t know how to answer Sigyn’s question.

 

As always, Odin did what he thought was best.

 

“My son…was a very troubled young man.  For all his worthy attributes, it would have been unwise to place someone in charge of a kingdom when they were still battling their own demons.”

 

In the half-light of the moon, Odin saw the girl purse her lips in a manner that cried accusation, disbelief.  For a second, he thought that she was going to say something in her husband’s defense, but that was rather farfetched.  Sigyn had sworn loyalty to Loki, but she felt nothing akin to _love_ for him.  She was adhering to the rules of mourning out of fondness for her step-children.  Nothing more.

 

“Forgive me, Borrson-King, but if his personal conflicts were the reason you overlooked my husband, should you not now step down from the throne yourself?”

 

Such innocent curiosity laced that question.  Yet the insult was clear enough.  Typical Vanir: courteous and scathing all at once.  Odin refused to acknowledge it.

 

“What I mean to say,” Sigyn continued, “is that this must have come as a shock to you, as well.  Unless you can enlighten us as to why he…”  She trailed off with a meaningful look to Sleipnir, obviously not wanting the word ‘suicide’ mentioned in front of her step-son.

 

Though Loki was gone and Sigyn harmless, Odin was not fool enough to confess his failure to solve the mystery that had been his youngest son.  It wouldn’t do.

 

“As I said before, he was troubled.  Learning of his adoption must have been too much for him.”

 

“He always seemed to have excellent control over his emotions,” the princess remarked, and Sleipnir gave a short whinny of agreement.  “Thinking through his anger or his sadness before _thundering_ rashly into action.  Much like a Vanir.”  There was a wistful little quirk to her lips that only added to Odin’s growing self-doubt.

 

“That wasn’t always the case,” he informed her, feeling slightly vindictive.  “As a child, he was forever crying over the most trivial of things.”

 

But the lady only shrugged.

 

“Children cry.  It is expected.  The key is to comfort not coddle, and remember that, eventually, they will stop.”  She scratched Sleipnir’s ears as if for emphasis.

 

Odin watched her for a moment, taking in the slight bow to her normally rigid posture, how she was so at ease in the company of one as massive and powerful as Sleipnir.

 

“I appreciate your offering to inform the rest of his children,” he finally said, “of what has happened.  Many in your position would no longer feel an obligation to them.”

 

“I’ve never felt any obligation,” Sigyn replied, her brow pinched.  She gave Odin a steady, calculating look that reminded him entirely too much of her grandfather.  “I love them.”

 

“Some would call them monsters.”

 

“Then they are ruled by fear and ignorance.” 

 

“Indeed…”

 

The young widow turned back to her step-child, laying a palm against his neck.  Though the words were not spoken out loud, and though the princess had no power to dismiss him, Odin knew that their conversation was over.  He bid her a quiet farewell and made to take his leave.

 

“I suppose it’s just as well,” Sigyn murmured.

 

He paused, turning to face her in silent question.

 

“That you didn’t appoint him King,” the princess clarified.  Her throat flexed sharply as she swallowed, and when she met his gaze, her eyes were painfully, determinedly dry.

 

“He wouldn’t have been happy.”

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

The following morn, the ravens Huginn and Muninn flew into the throne room with a message from the equerry: Sleipnir, the mightiest of steeds, had gone missing.  Escaped.

 

As King, Odin had a right to the finest steed in the Nine Realms.  None would have argued this, and none would have questioned the All-Father had he ordered his best men to find the stallion, no matter how vicious or time-consuming the quest.

 

But to deny that the search had only been half-hearted—that would have been a lie.

 

* * *

_…what a puzzle to the rest of us…_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Njörðr – nowhere (that I can find) in Norse mythology does it state that Njörðr was the king of Vanaheim. However, for plot/political reasons, here he gets to be the King. And he was God of the Sea (something largely associated with the Vanir), which in my mind translates to the Norse equivalent of Poseidon, who was a king. Also, on an unimportant note, if I had it my way, Njörðr would be played by Brian Blessed. Because I’ve always liked Sir Anthony Hopkins but was pretty jazzed to learn that Brian Blessed was the original choice for Odin.
> 
> Freyja – while we're on the subject, picture Jessica Lange as Freyja. I tried to think of an actress who was older yet still beautiful, passionate, and intimidating; a little wild but always classy; and able to make anyone and everyone lust after her without even trying. Naturally, Jessica Lange was the first person who came to mind.
> 
> Glapsviðr – one of Odin’s many epithets, this one means “swift in deceit” or “swift tricker.”
> 
> the Birth of Sleipnir – this, like many Norse myths, is open to interpretation. Did myth!Loki _want_ to get boned by a horse? Probably not. Was he raped? Possibly, but if I went with that, there’d be no way I’d be able to ignore it and this fic would end up becoming much darker and more depressing. So, my preferred interpretation is that he didn’t expect it, he didn’t want it, but when he realized what was going to happen, he figured that he might as well enjoy it.
> 
> “…if…his… _friends_ had given him the chance.” – this is probably my fangirl feels getting in the way, but I’ve always thought that it was unfair (correct, but unfair) that Sif and the W3 automatically blame Loki for everything bad that follows Thor’s coronation. Personal headcannon says that Sif’s resentment stems from Loki’s cutting her hair off, which I can sympathize with (it’s vain and petty, but dude, shaving someone’s head is Not Cool). Everyone else, though, what the heck? Fandral even admits that, while Loki’s always been a prick, he’s never been a _malicious_ prick. Yet they go and commit treason by rescuing Thor—Thor, whom they have no idea has been reformed and who could have just as easily been the same old, arrogant, irrational warmonger he’s always been. Yeah, that would’ve been good for the realm. So I’m thinking there’s a bit of blind-following and blind-hatred going on.
> 
> Hnikarr – means "Overthrower" and is another one of Odin’s numerous names. Kinda makes sense that the Vanir might use it when feeling less than happy with the All-Father.
> 
> Odin’s A+ Parenting – the way I see it, Odin’s characterization is almost as ambiguous as Loki’s, and thus I did same for each of them and went with the interpretations that I like best. In the case of Odin, I don’t see him as a bad parent per se. He really does love both of his sons equally. But Thor is definitely his favorite. This isn’t so much because Thor is the ideal Asgardian warrior/king but because he and Odin are quite alike. They have the same interests, similar personalities—basically, Odin gets Thor and he doesn’t get Loki. It’s natural for a parent to gravitate toward the kid that they can more easily relate to—usually without realizing that they’re doing it. In addition, Odin (and Asgard in general) strikes me as the type who doesn’t like things/people that he can’t understand. And while this might not make him resent Loki, it would probably be incredibly frustrating.
> 
> Odin doesn’t like magic – this goes along with the ‘Odin doesn’t like what he can’t understand,’ the ‘Odin likes being the Alpha Dog.’ and the ‘Odin only feels like the Alpha Dog if he knows everybody’s business’ theories. These closed-minded traits sound more appropriate to pre-banishment Thor, but I figure that the God of Thunder gets his attitude from _somewhere_ , and I highly doubt that it’s Frigga. It could be blamed on Asgardian society, but then, where did _they_ get it? Everyone looks to Odin as an example and Thor is like the poster boy for the culture, so I’m pinning a lot of it on the All-Daddy. So, to have Loki, who not only wields magic but also slinks off to do his own Loki thing without anyone knowing it, as a son might breed some dislike from Odin, even if he does love the kid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay. It really is unforgivable, although between work, the winter holidays, and pneumonia, I'm pleased that I was at least able to finish this chapter. If it helps, it _is_ quite lengthy. And, if nothing else, perhaps my Lego Avengers blog will keep you amused? http://itty-bitty-avengers.tumblr.com

Apparently, real princesses don’t care for princess movies. Or at least Viking princesses don’t. Natasha doesn’t comment on Jane’s attempts to ease Sigyn into Earth culture via Disney, thinking that the goddess will be amused if nothing else. Starting with _Cinderella_ even seems like a good idea, since Thor has described Sigyn’s marriage as a rags-to-riches sort of tale.

 

Turns out, Thor is wrong.

 

“ _What?_ Does he think I was a scraping, impoverished urchin before gallant Loki _whisked_ me away to a life of privilege and decadence? Æsir… They think other realms inferior and the inhabitants grateful just to taste the _dirt_ of Asgard… And how could the stepmother treat Cinderella like this? She agreed to love and care for the girl when she married her father.”

 

It seems that, despite looking like a Disney villain, Sigyn is _not_ a wicked stepmother. Thor attests to this, citing Loki’s monster kids as examples, though by now Natasha is having serious doubts about the thunder god’s credibility. (She knew they should’ve consulted that guy from Berkley).

 

So, they move on to _the Princess and the Frog_.

 

“Are we to understand that, in the battle of want vs. need, one should choose _need?_ Need, in this case, being love.   Ergo, one should choose _romance_ over finally attaining a goal that one has spent their entire life striving to achieve? And we’re to assume that there will be no resentment on the part of the sacrificial party?”

 

“Well, when you put it like _that_ …” Jane admits.

 

 _The Little Mermaid_ is next.

 

“Why don’t Ariel and Ursula become allies and put a stop to Trident’s despotic reign? Has no one seen the parallels betwixt the two? And what _redhead_ wears _that_ shade of _pink_ , honestly?”

 

They are only fourteen-point-three minutes into _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_ before Sigyn lodges a new complaint.

 

“I have detected a common theme—are these tales intended as warnings toward power-seeking women? Otherwise, I cannot see why a beautiful, _regnant_ queen would find a rival in a nasally, pubescent _chit_.”

 

“And they never have any female friends,” Natasha finds herself observing.

 

“Yeah,” Jane agrees. “It’s like, they can make nice with chipmunks and talking teapots but not another woman?”

 

“And what cause is there for such discrimination toward sorcerers?” Sigyn argues. “Thus far, that prejudice has featured in every film you’ve shown me. _Cinderella_ has been the only exception—and I _still_ found it offensive.”

 

Natasha and Jane don’t need words in order to agree that it’s best to just forego watching _Sleeping Beauty_ and move on to _Aladdin_.

 

Which goes surprisingly well.

 

Until it’s revealed that Aladdin plans to win Princess Jasmine’s heart by pretending to be a prince. Then Sigyn blows up the TV.

 

“Oh my God!” Jane cries.

 

Natasha has her gun leveled at Sigyn’s head in less than a heartbeat.

 

Over Jane’s continued exclamations of “Oh my God!” and “Holy shit!”; Stark’s complaints that that was a _brand new_ flat screen, damnit; and Thor’s insisting that Sigyn calm herself and that Lady Natasha please relinquish her weapon, the destructive goddess seems to return from a sullen rumination.

 

“Sincerest apologies, I was struck by a rather foul memory. Here—” With a flick of her hand, the TV rights itself, broken pieces melting seamlessly back into place and smoke evaporating in an instant. The movie resumes, but Natasha puts it on pause.

 

“Care to explain what _that_ was about?”

 

“It is as I said, I was overcome by a memory that caused me to forget myself. It won’t happen again.”

 

“Bull _shit_ ,” Stark declares. “What’d my flat screen ever do to you?”

 

“That must’ve been some memory,” Jane comments, and Natasha notices how quick Sigyn is to wave her off.

 

“Merely unexpected. I have had centuries to come to terms with it.”

 

“And what is ‘it,’ exactly?” Natasha inquires.

 

“As refreshingly intelligent mortals, I imagine you can figure it out for yourselves, given what you know of my marriage.” At their blank faces, “Or…not. Thor, what all have you told them?”

 

“I have only spoken of your oath of loyalty and my brother’s deep and lasting affection for you.”

 

“‘Deep and lasting affection,’” Sigyn echoes flatly. “Yes, renouncing his marriage vows and then abandoning me as an impuissant _nothing_ in a foreign realm. Oh, ‘tis indisputable, his _deep_ and _lasting_ affection for me.”

 

Thor shakes his head.

 

“You judge my brother too harshly.”

 

“Have I not the right?” It’s a demand, but Natasha detects the faintest desperate plea for confirmation. Well that’s strange. But at least it sounds like Sigyn is trying to keep calm and carry on conversing.

 

“After years of enduring a forced marriage because of your brother’s alleged all-consuming love for me—”

 

“Sigyn—”

 

“—which is a kind way of saying he refuses to accept _rejection_ —only to have him disregard _everything_ , as if it were _meaningless_.”

 

The burn of Sigyn’s finishing scowl could singe hair. Thor seems to have the good sense to look abashed.

 

Stark, on the other hand, does not.

 

“Yeah, cuz I’m sure being a princess was a real hassle.”

 

Thankfully, Sigyn must be feeling generous because her only response is a dull “That is irrelevant.” It’s so placid and matter-of-fact that Natasha suspects this woman is well aware of how pointless raising your voice can be. (Knowledge of how to command attention and be taken seriously—a product of court life, or possibly having multiple siblings.)

 

“Sigyn…” Thor begins, “for all that Loki may appear selfish, I sincerely believe, at his core, he does what he believes is best by those he…cares for.”

 

“So you have said,” the goddess sighs. “Only recently have I begun to agree with you.”

 

Thor beams.

 

“Truly?”

 

“Truly.”

 

A cry of triumph is the only warning before Sigyn is pulled into what has to be a painful embrace. Seriously, Natasha thinks she can hear the woman’s ribs creak.

 

“You see?” the thunder god asks the group. “It is as I have said many a time: One cannot help but love Loki, if only they give him a _chance_.”

 

“Yeah, he’s like a horny, green Barney,” Stark mutters.

 

“That was merely a ruse, son of Stark, and I will thank you to remember that.” Thor’s statement is punctuated by a clap of thunder, just to show he means business. Natasha shrugs.

 

“He was a hit at Sasha Obama’s birthday party. The kids all thought the President had hired an insanely good magician.”

 

“Oh, your leader supports magic?” Sigyn inquires, sounding delighted.

 

“You bet,” Stark cuts in. “He and Santa Claus are real tight, too—get together every Saturday for fried chicken and foosball.”

 

“Does the Easter Rabbit join them?” the goddess returns, adopting such a deadpan demeanor that Natasha is sure that she’s the only one who knows that the woman is being facetious. And, really, with their sudden exposure to alien invaders, mythical Norse gods, and WWII war heroes back from the dead, she can’t blame her teammates for wondering if magic bunnies _do_ exist.

 

“What I wanna know,” Jane now asks Sigyn, “is what you meant by ‘forced marriage?’”

 

“Loki proposed, I declined, and so he observed me until the appropriate time when I could be cozened into a matrimonial union.”

 

“Did you say yes because he kidnapped your baby brother? Or did he just go the date rape route and give you a drugged peach?” Stark asks. They all stare. “Oh come on. We duke it out with a trick-loving, tantrum-throwing, melodramatic _god-king_ , and you expect me _not_ to make _Labyrinth_ references? Have you _seen_ the guy’s _pants?_ ”

 

“Obviously _you_ have,” Natasha mutters.

 

“He married me,” Sigyn clarifies, “because he sought to harness my _power_ for his own _use_ , and to prevent others from doing the same.”

 

“And because he loves you,” Thor puts in. The princess merely rolls her eyes.

 

“And renouncing your marriage vows?” Natasha prods. “What did you mean by that?”

 

“After standing trial in Asgard, Loki declared that he was leaving, and that he no longer wished to be my husband. Heated words were exchanged, irrevocable insults were thrown, and it culminated in him storming out just as I ordered him to leave.”

 

“So you’re pretty pissed,” Natasha observes.

 

“Why would I indulge in spirits at a time like this?” the goddess asks with a frown.

 

To which the redhead responds by arching a brow and adding a new article to her mental filing cabinet.

 

_Ancient Norse goddess up-to-date on British slang—investigate._

 

“She means you’re angry at Loki,” Jane clarifies. “And, if that’s the case, why’d you agree to help us?”

 

“Secret quest for revenge?” Stark supplies hopefully. “Because I am _all_ for helping you give Prancer his comeuppance.”

 

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Sigyn dryly inquires.

 

“Out of the pain the ass known as your hubby.”

 

Before the princess returns her attention to Natasha and the others, she gifts the billionaire Lothario with a grin that is truly devilish, even without her horned headdress.

 

“I am helping because there is a possibility that my reasoning with Loki on your behalves may coincide with our reconciliation.”

 

“You _want_ to get back together?” Jane asks, confused.

 

“I want to make him _listen_ ,” the goddess corrects. Her gaze drops to her lap. “When last we quarreled, many misunderstandings were had. I think, perhaps, that has been the essence of our entire marriage. For it would seem that, for all my husband and I are gifted orators, we lack the ability to communicate with one another.”

 

“So that’s a no on the revenge?”

 

Natasha and Jane scowl at Stark’s crestfallen expression, but Sigyn just shakes her head.

 

“If you’re so intent on seeking vengeance, know that my husband likely targets you because he finds it entertaining.”

 

“He turned my Aston Martin into a Dodge Charger,” the playboy seethes.

 

Sigyn cackles.

 

 _Understanding of pop culture references_ is immediately filed away into Natasha’s mental hard drive.

 

“How am I supposed to be James Bond when I’m driving the General Lee?” Stark continues to whine, earning himself a scoff from Jane.

 

“Oh please. If anyone’s James Bond, it’s Natasha. And she’s so good, she doesn’t even need the _accent_ , let alone the car.”

 

Were she not immune to such things, Natasha might feel flattered by Jane’s confidence in her. Instead, she stays on task.

 

“So, judging from your reaction to _Aladdin_ , Loki tricked you by lying about his identity. By the time you realized who he was, you two were already married.”

 

“More or less,” the princess replies.

 

“My brother sent trolls after Theoric Bárðrson, Sigyn’s betrothed,” Thor explains. “Whilst he was engaged in battle, Loki took his form and married Sigyn in Theoric’s stead.”

 

Stark gapes at Sigyn.

 

“Remind me again: You _aren’t_ plotting Loki’s death because… _why?_ ”

 

“No one was harmed,” Thor defends, but Natasha sees the way Sigyn’s lips thin.

 

“I have begun to understand that my husband’s motivations _were_ selfish, but not entirely so.”

 

“Ah, you have finally accepted my brother’s great love for you,” Thor commends, smiling happily.

 

“Nay, only that, when I still thought him dead, I allowed myself to consider…certain aspects…of Loki that until then I had refused to acknowledge. I realized that he is driven by…a need…but no _true malice_. And once I accepted that, I began to feel sympathy… With that came affection, even…longing… How I wished that he hadn’t—” Her mouth tightens. “But he _hadn’t_. And when I thought I had been granted a second chance, he inadvertently ruined it being…himself.” A sigh. “What I feel for Loki…cannot be described in a single word. Not even if that word is ‘love.’”

 

The atmosphere is suddenly regretful, pensive.

 

Somehow, Tony Stark still has the balls to smirk.

 

“In other words, your love life is a Taylor Swift song.”

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

For all of Tony’s jabs about how Steve must be mesmerized by talkies and the existence of cars other than the Model T, Steve’s had a pretty easy time adapting to the future. Or, present, he supposes. There are still things that he doesn’t get (like current slang, certain historical references, or the world’s obsession with reality TV), but he isn’t nearly as lost as he once was. He’s gotten the hang of smartphones, and he can work the toaster—which not even Tony can do.

 

“That’s only because the damn thing wouldn’t _dare_ burn _Captain America’s_ toast,” is always the billionaire’s defense, but he tends to shut up when Pepper points out that it isn’t the toaster; Tony just can’t cook, period.

 

Steve likes Pepper. She’s understanding, patient, and accommodating—all inarguably necessary qualities when dealing with Tony Stark, but they’ve been helpful to Steve, as well. If he were to ask for help running the microwave, Tony would make a lame history-related joke, explain things too quickly, and then storm off in frustration when Steve failed to grasp everything the first time around. Pepper, on the other hand, would kindly show him what to do and even write down the instructions for him, just in case.

 

(It’s really considerate of her, and Steve would be annoyed at how little appreciation Tony seems to have for Pepper, but Natasha has assured him that this is not, in fact, the case. And Steve trusts Natasha. She just knows these things.)

 

Phil has also been a godsend (a term Steve now uses carefully) when it comes to understanding the modern world. Once he’d toned down his “fangirling” (as Tony calls it), and assured Steve that he wasn’t doing an “Edward Cullen” while he slept (again, Tony’s words), things became less awkward between the two of them. As the Avengers’ unofficial supervisor, Phil is present for most of their team meetings and has no problem acting as a translator whenever the discussion becomes too current for Steve to follow. He’s also great at deterring the more…enthusiastic…admirers who occasionally badger Steve on the streets. Most aren’t so bad—the ones that are happy with a smile and a handshake—but then there are those like the weirdo who had kept on… _smelling_ …him. Hovering no less than three inches away, just...inhaling him.

 

(“She just wanted to drink in the scent of Captain America,” Tony had said. “The scent of apple pie, and justice.”)

 

It had made Steve more than little uncomfortable, but since the woman hadn’t done anything _truly_ threatening (and since he didn’t enjoy hurting people, anyway), there hadn’t been much that he could do beyond politely asking her to stop. This, of course, had had no effect at all. Then Phil had stepped in and, in that benign-yet-intimidating way that he had, and calmly informed the woman that, if she wanted to continue enjoying the heroics and generosity of Captain America, then she couldn’t keep him all to herself. And if she tried, she would find herself in the bad books of one of the most powerful espionage and law-enforcement agencies in the country. The admirer had promptly backed off.

 

To say that Phil and Pepper are two of his favorite people…wouldn’t be fair to the rest of his teammates, and the last thing that Steve wants is to hurt anyone’s feelings. Although he will admit that he does seem to spend more time with Pepper and Phil than anyone else. Like today, for example. While the rest of the Avengers are helping Loki’s wife move into Stark Tower, the three of them are visiting one of Manhattan’s many art museums.

 

“I think you’ll like the Cloisters better than the MoMA,” Pepper assures him. “Although there’s plenty of modern art that doesn’t feature explicit nudity.”

 

“That didn’t even bother me—well, not too much,” Steve corrects himself. “I just don’t understand how a pink plank leaning against a wall can be called ‘art,’ let alone good enough to wind up in a national gallery.”

 

“Never underestimate the power of good PR,” Phil replies.

 

“Don’t mention that to Tony,” Pepper mutters. “Between me and SHIELD cleaning up after him, he thinks he can get away with anything. One day he’ll realize that he can’t keep being so childish—ooh, _unicorns_.”

 

Before Steve can register the abrupt subject change, Pepper has whisked them off to examine a set of tapestries so large that each one nearly spanned from floor to ceiling. He can’t say that he gets Pepper’s not-so-secret affinity for mythical horses with horns, or Medieval art, for that matter (him being more of an art deco fan). But he _can_ understand why she likes this particular collection. Not only are most of the tapestries still in good condition, but the amount of detail that they each contain is incredible. Made even moreso by the fact that it was all done by hand. Well, hand and loom. But still.

 

Had he visited this exhibit in his pre-serum days, Steve imagines that trying to detect every individual flower, insect, and animal in the tapestries would have made him dizzy. Thankfully, that’s no longer a problem.

 

“ _The Hunt of the Unicorn_ ,” he hears Phil read from the little plaque near the room’s entrance. “Most tapestries like this are meant to tell a story, usually one that serves as an allegory for some social conflict of the time.”

 

“That, and Medieval draft guards since those castles were freezing,” Pepper adds brightly. Yet her expression fades when she turns to the second tapestry, wherein the eponymous unicorn is surrounded by vicious hunters and their hounds, lances poised, all eager to strike.

 

Steve winces.

 

“Allegory or not, I can’t say I like the message it’s sending.”

 

“He seems fairly capable of defending himself,” Phil reasons, pointing to the third tapestry, which shows the unicorn fighting back, kicking a hunter while stabbing one of the dogs with its horn.

 

“Well…it _is_ good that he’s isn’t willing to go down without a fight,” Steve reluctantly admits, “but this one’s even worse. Who would want something so graphic hanging up in their dining room?”

 

“Actually, no one knows who the patron or the artist was,” Pepper informs him. “There’s been a lot of debate about it, but no solid conclusions.”

 

“Whoever it was, they must have been rooting for the unicorn,” Steve replies, and he nods to the seventh and final tapestry. Together, his friends turn to take in the sight of the unicorn sitting in an enclosure, tethered, but seemingly unharmed, happy amongst the fruit and flowers.

 

“Wait…” Pepper murmurs, frowning slightly, here eyes darting back and forth between tapestries four and five. “That…that doesn’t seem right. The one with just the hunters should be first, not fifth.”

 

Steve finds himself frowning, as well.

 

“If they’ve killed the unicorn in the fourth tapestry, why are they still out hunting in the fifth?”

 

“I believe I can answer that,” says someone from behind them.

 

When he turns toward the source of the voice, Steve is immediately overcome with a case of the jitters. Super Soldier Serum or not, he’s still hopeless when it comes to women. Especially strangers, and _especially_ if they’re attractive. And the individual currently eyeing Steve and his friends is all three.

 

She’s young, maybe late twenties to early thirties, as well as tall and thin. Her sleek, inky hair—tied up in a tidy knot—is a sharp contrast to her pale, heart-shaped face. Stylishly thick tortoise-shell frames nearly hide her eyes, but the fitted, teal-colored turtleneck that she wears brings out the blue in them. The top has been synched with a thin, black belt (making her narrow waist seem even narrower), and it’s complemented by a slate-gray pencil skirt. She stands before them, perfectly composed and apparently untroubled by the staggering height of her black stiletto heels.

 

Ignoring how Steve can only stammer (or maybe because of it), the woman smiles and steps forward.

 

“Wendy Vætkisson, newly appointed curator.” Her smile widens. “In regard to the tapestries, I belong to the group of theorists who believe that the accepted sequence is not necessarily the _correct_ one, as tapestries five, six, and seven present a charming, even idyllic scene, whereas one through four are clearly more brutal and steeped in religious symbolism. With that in mind, in addition to the slight stylistic differences, I’ve come to the conclusion that there are two similar-yet-separate tales being told.”

 

“And your first act as curator was to rearrange them to your liking,” Phil remarks dryly.

 

“With sufficient reason, but yes,” Ms. Vætkisson allows. “What’s more, I suspect that the more uplifting set is incomplete, and not only due to the fragmented nature of the sixth tapestry.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Pepper inquires.

 

The curator shrugs, indifferent.

 

“Largely because I don’t care for the idea of the lady betraying the unicorn. If she did, it was only so she could later aid in his escape. But, I suppose we’ll never know for certain.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Phil muses, regarding the woman with something almost like disappointment. “Is this really the best you can do?”

 

“When I’m not trying terribly hard, yes,” Ms. Vætkisson replies, smirking in a way that almost reminds Steve of… But it’s too weird even to contemplate.

 

“Phil,” Pepper begins, wary, “what’s going on?”

 

“You know, those Avengers are quite fortunate to have you as their minder,” the curator informs Phil. “You’re much more observant than they are.”

 

“It comes in handy,” Phil allows. “Just like when I only said that you lacked conviction instead of elaborating and revealing your deception to the Chitauri. I’d say you owe me.”

 

“I only maimed you when I could have easily murdered you— _and_ I took care not to damage anything vital. The debt is repaid.”

 

“I thought you would’ve at least altered your hair color.”

 

“As I said, this is hardly my best effort,” Ms. Vætkisson sniffs, casually inspecting her glossy, black fingernails. “If it were, not even you would know.”

 

Steve shares a glance with Pepper, but she seems to have come upon the same horrifying conclusion that he has. And, really, he supposes, in a world where a mild-mannered scientist can turn into an unstoppable green monster, ancient Norse gods actually exist, and televisions have more than two channels, this honestly shouldn’t surprise him. But still. _Still_.

 

“You—you’re—”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But—you…you’re a _man_ , right?”

 

“In actuality, my true race is intersexed. Even were that not the case, as a shape-shifter, I can take on any form I please.”

 

“Don’t tell Tony that,” Pepper warns sardonically. “As much as he hates magic, that’d be like a dream come true to him; he’d never get bored.”

 

“While your lover is amusing, he’s rather too flighty for my taste,” replies Ms. Vætkisson—because, frankly, Steve would feel awkward calling her by the alternative.

 

Meanwhile, Pepper is blushing and muttering something about how that isn’t what she meant but it’s good to know.

 

Phil clears his throat.

 

“No offense, but given your track record, I’m afraid I must ask what you’re doing here and what happened to your predecessor.”

 

“I work here,” is the smooth reply. “I believe that answers both of your questions.”

 

“Loki,” Steve whispers sharply (because saying ‘Ms. Vætkisson’ is weird, too). “What did you do to the last curator?”

 

The god-woman sighs, looking at Phil and Pepper beseechingly.

 

“Given that I am constantly beset by unfounded accusations, is it any surprise that I’m so defensive? To think, I’ve heard so many tales of your impeccable manners, Captain.”

 

“They aren’t just rumors,” Pepper clarifies. “Steve usually is very polite, he just forgets himself when he’s worried about the safety of the free world.”

 

“Understandable, I suppose. I imagine I was somewhat disagreeable when first we met, what with my being preoccupied with protecting Asgard and annihilating the Chitauri.”

 

“I certainly think that ‘attempting to subjugate the human race’ classifies as rude,” Phil quips dryly.

 

“ _Pretending_ to attempt to subjugate the human race,” Loki corrects. “But, if it means that much to you, there is no need to fear for _any_ of this establishment’s employees, former or current. I simply met with the head administrator, created the position for myself, and planted the idea in his head.”

 

“And _why?_ ” Steve presses.

 

“To protect my investment,” the god replies, punctuating this with a nod to the tapestries. “And not a moment too soon. It’s _appalling_ , the condition they’re in.”

 

“Oh you are kidding me,” Steve sighs, knowing full well that Loki isn’t.

 

“You mortals clearly have no idea how to care for them,” the god continues, sighing miserably at the faded and tattered remnants of the sixth tapestry. “ _That_ one was used to cover potatoes, of all things.”

 

“But if you commissioned them,” Pepper slowly inquires, “why are they here instead of Asgard?”

 

“My personal favorite _is_ in Asgard. Unfortunately, I was summoned to court before the rest were completed, and by the time I returned to Midgard, they had been stolen. Now, as I have quite a bit of time at my disposal, I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure their safety. Oh, don’t look at me like that—I have no intention of stealing them. It would be unfair to keep them entirely to myself, away from the public eye. The craftsmanship is far too exquisite.”

 

“How philanthropic of you,” Phil deadpans.

 

“I _am_ philanthropic, moreso than any of you realize.”

 

“Because turning my shield into a giant cookie was such a benefit to society,” Steve gripes.

 

“It could have brought you a step closer to solving world hunger, had you not insisted that I change it back. See? Philanthropic.”

 

“What was your reasoning behind stealing all of the tigers from the Bronx Zoo?” Pepper inquires dryly.

 

“They were a birthday present for my daughter. As Queen of the Dead, she doesn’t receive many gifts.”

 

“What about sending an army of Peeps to attack the city?” Phil asks.

 

“That was for _your_ benefit,” Loki replies. “It wouldn’t do for Earth’s mightiest heroes to grow idle. Your merry band of misfits provides me with some of the best entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”

 

While Phil and Pepper look both dubious and slightly aghast, Steve finds himself stuck on their enemy’s words. Which is a bad idea (God of Lies, and all), but it’s a weird choice of phrasing, no matter how dismissive it might have sounded. For instance, with new teams of heroes emerging all the time now, why is Loki only targeting the Avengers? Steve knows that the X-Men have done battle with him, too, but Loki has pretty much ignored them. Steve and his comrades were the only group that Loki bothered for no reason.

 

For that matter, what’s Loki doing on Earth in the first place? If he doesn’t like Asgard, then supposedly there are at least seven other realms that he could be tormenting. And though Steve’s hesitant to admit it, it’s unlikely that Loki’s out for revenge, especially since he had apparently orchestrated his own defeat (was it still defeat if, technically, he’d been successful?) and, according to Thor, he sees the Avengers as his “ignorant little minions,” not his enemies. Then, why does he keep going after them? While Steve doesn’t doubt that Loki has fun watching them battle giant, marshmallow Easter treats, he suspects that that isn’t the only reason why the god keeps hanging around.

 

Then, Jane Foster’s theory comes back to him: However ridiculous it may be, what if Loki is actually just…lonely? From the sound of things, he’s never been popular in Asgard, largely due to his lack of physical strength, which Steve can relate to with a reluctant ease (though he still doesn’t quite get it, considering how well Loki held off both himself and Tony in Germany). To go from a lifetime of ostracism to earning the gratitude of the very people who ridiculed him… Wow, Asgard is fickle. Steve can’t say that he blames Loki for washing his hands of them. But, he reasons, that doesn’t mean that the guy doesn’t still wish for acceptance.

 

At least annoying the Avengers guarantees some form of company.

 

Suddenly, Steve finds himself more on-board with Jane and Natasha’s princess plan than he had been before. If Loki’s wife actually _could_ talk some sense into her husband… Steve has been all for solving their Loki Problem without violence, but he hasn’t been able to help being a bit wary, especially given what had almost happened to Phil (and Steve has already lost so many…). Now, with this new suspicion, he finds himself coming around.

 

“Besides,” Loki sniffs, “that hoard of yellow, gelatinous fluff was hardly a challenge.”

 

And, despite himself, Steve feels inclined to agree.

 

* * *

 .•°*°•.

* * *

 

 

“Y’know,” Tony says, “for all your airs and graces, you’re not very princess-y.”

 

“What, dare I ask, does Midgard consider ‘princess-y?’” Sigyn queries.

 

“Well, Jane’s the expert, but in _my_ experience, you guys typically favor an all-pink wardrobe, are noticeably _non_ violent, and spend your time stuck in a tower, waiting for Prince Charming or Mario to rescue your royal ass.”

 

Jane thinks that Sigyn must practice that one-eyebrow arch, because she is the _champion_ of it.

 

“Though I have a predilection for rich hues, I _can_ alter my attire if it means that much to you. As for being held captive, by now I imagine you’re well aware that that has never been an issue, thus negating any cause to rescue my ‘ _royal ass_ ,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

 

“Killjoy,” Tony mutters. “What about animals? You have any talking animal friends? A smart-alecky squirrel, germaphobic sugar glider…?”

 

“I have a _gutefår_ though he doesn’t talk.”

 

“A…what?”

 

“A _gutefår_ ,” Thor explains. “Quite like your Midgardian sheep, only larger and with two sets of horns.”

 

“Highly intelligent, fiercely loyal, and an excellent source of transportation,” Sigyn adds. “They are also known to produce mead instead of milk.”

 

“Okay, new question,” Tony interjects, obviously put-off by the thought of giant sheep, even magical booze-giving ones. “What’s with princesses being so coma-prone? It’s like you can’t touch anything without doing a Rip Van Winkle. And you’d think after so many of you ladies went veg thanks to cursed fruit or knitting needles, you’d learn to wear gloves, but no.”

 

“ _I_ wear gloves,” Sigyn reminds him. “Though it’s a stylistic choice, not a safeguard. And Rip Van Winkle wasn’t cursed, he was somnolent.”

 

“All right, that’s it.”

 

 _Oh hell_ , Jane realizes, and suddenly Natasha’s in interrogation mode.

 

“That’s the fourth time you’ve shown familiarity with our culture. _Thor_ still struggles with the _toaster_ —”

 

“Uh, in Hammer Time’s defense,” Tony interrupts, “toasters are no _tor_ iously bitchy—even I don’t like them. And my relationship with mechanics is a love not seen since Romeo and Juliet, or me and my right hand.”

 

“My right hand and _I_ ,” Sigyn corrects.

 

“Seriously, Cinderella?”

 

“And _Romeo and Juliet_ wasn’t about love; it was about the needless tragedies that occur when two feuding parties fail to put aside their differences.”

 

“Five,” Natasha continues. “ _That_ is exactly what I’m talking about. Thor, have you ever heard of Shakespeare?”

 

“Beyond the comparisons Tony has made to my manner of speech, I have not.”

 

“But I’ll bet _you_ knew him personally,” Natasha says to Sigyn.

 

“Ooh, we should introduce her to Ian McKellen!” Jane suggests. “Or Jeremy Irons, or…any decent British actor, really.”

 

“Yeah, all the Brits shake their willies for Willy Shakes,” Tony agrees offhandedly. “Speaking of which, Your Highness, please tell me you and Oscar Wilde made the beast with two backs.”

 

“No, at that time, I was preoccupied with assisting Theo in apprehending Atli Ragnarson. I believe you mortals referred to him as ‘Jack the Ripper.’”

 

Both Jane and Thor sputter.

 

“Theodoric Bárðrson, that irresponsible _veslingr!_ ” Thor rages.   “Placing you in the company of that blood-hungry deviant! He will soon regret endangering a princess of Asgard!”

 

“ _Lady Sif_ has accompanied _you_ on many a journey,” Sigyn points out.

 

“Lady Sif is a warrior, dear sister, a shield maiden! Skilled in the art of battle! Never have I had reason to doubt her ability to look after herself.”

 

Alarm bells go off in Jane’s head when she sees Sigyn purse her lips into a tight, murderous smile, but the princess only responds with a demure “Of course.”

 

Before Thor insults the goddess further (or Natasha hauls off and decks him because, _seriously?_ was he not here when Sigyn blew up the TV? even Jane kinda wants to hit him), Jane decides to change the subject.

 

“I guess that explains why they never caught Jack the Ripper.”

 

“Yeah, that and the case’s being heavily influenced by anti-Semitism and a complete lack of forensic analysis,” is Natasha’s dry addition.

 

“So, wait,” Tony begins, “you’re saying it _wasn’t_ Queen Victoria's kid or the _Alice in Wonderland_ guy?”

 

“Queen Victoria had a country to run and a husband to mourn,” Sigyn explains. “She hardly had time indulge her violent side.”

 

“What were _you_ doing hunting Jack the Ripper, anyway?” the billionaire demands.

 

“As a member of the Crimson Hawks, my erstwhile fiancé is often required to partake in the mercenary recovery of fugitives.”

 

“…a bounty hunter? You were engaged to a friggin’ _bounty hunter_?”

 

“Occasionally, said fugitives are skilled escapologists and _seiðmenn_ —neither of which are Theo’s specialties. Hence, he will deign to ask me to accompany him.”

 

“Incantation Fetter…” Jane murmurs, awed.

 

Sigyn looks pleased.

 

“So named for my immense talent in the art of bondage.”

 

“ _Not_ the kind you’re thinking of, Stark, get your mind out of the gutter,” Natasha snaps when Tony makes a strange little whine in the back of his throat. Jane isn’t sure if it’s a sound of fear or lust.

 

“Okay, well, what other major historical events have you influenced?” she asks.

 

“Nothing terribly important,” the goddess assures her. Thor gapes.

 

“You mean to say you have ventured to Midgard on more than one occasion?”

 

“Often without a chaperone,” Sigyn can’t seem to help but add wickedly. “It’s hardly my fault if you and your father failed to notice.”

 

“My father sees all,” Thor firmly states.

 

“Then he obviously never felt the need to tell you of my many trips.”

 

“Hold up, hold up,” Tony suddenly interjects. “I noticed that _you_ , pretty-pretty princess, weren’t offended by my insinuation that you’ve had, uh, ‘ _carnal relations_ ’ with the notorious Mr. Wilde.”

 

“One would hardly call it an insinuation…”

 

“Still, I suggested that the Goddess of _Fidelity_ was something other than pure as the driven snow—you’re telling me that doesn’t gall your balls, just a little?”

 

“At the moment, I possess no balls to gall,” Sigyn replies. “Secondly, ‘fidelity’ is a rather broad term. While it is typically defined as venereal faithfulness to one’s spouse, it is also synonymous with constancy, reliability, tenacity, perseverance…need I continue? I confess, I have a voracious appetite for knowledge and often find travel to be the perfect way to sate it. I have been venturing to the other realms and exploring new cultures long before I was married, so while, politically, my allegiance is to my husband, he’ll not stop me from doing what I please.”

 

“Or who, apparently,” Tony quips.

 

“Whom,” Sigyn corrects.

 

“I’m guessing you must know a contraceptive…spell?” Jane hazards. “It’s just that I’ve read that the Vanir are pretty fertile.”

 

“In spite of that fact, I myself have never born a child.”

 

Natasha pounces, “Which isn’t to say you haven’t had kids.” A steady Look. “You said you didn’t have any balls _at the moment_.”

 

“ _Very_ astute,” Sigyn complements.

 

“What are you implying, Lady Natasha?” It’s meant to be a demand, but Thor’s unease is obvious.

 

“Come now, Thor, you know perfectly well that I, like most Vanir, am a shape-shifter. You’ve seen me do it many a time.”

 

“Yes, but I have never known _you_ to…alter yourself in such a way...and then go so far as to…”

 

“Impregnate someone?” Jane finishes gently.

 

“Aw, no,” Tony whines. “I’m not drunk enough for chicks growing dicks, let alone—oh, no, _no_ —aww fuck me…”

 

A soft, silvery light encompasses the goddess, and when it fades, in her place sits what is undeniably a _god_. Long and lean, he has the princess’s fair complexion, her titian hair (now pulled into a neat ponytail instead of an elegant bun), and her dark, witchy eyes but there is no doubt about it: This guy is, well, a _guy_.

 

A rather _hot_ guy. Granted, Jane’s always been into sculpted, Adonis-types like Thor, but still…she won’t deny that, in terms of man-pretty, guy!Sigyn could give David Bowie a run for his money.

 

“Well,” Tony says after a moment, “I can see why people’d wanna have your babies. The cheekbones alone, damn…”

 

“Care to tell us who those people were?” Natasha inquires of the princess-turned-prince.

 

“Mostly women burdened with the necessity of producing an heir yet incapable of conceiving, for one reason or another. After ensuring that the husbands were indisposed, I took on their forms and gave their wives a night of much needed pleasure. And, in addition, a child.”

 

Thor appears to be struggling to take all of this in, which is never a good sign. Though he’s undoubtedly a decent guy, Jane knows from experience that Thor is pretty out of his depth when it comes to handling strong emotions. Asking him to deal with multiple emotions? Yeah, this won’t end with a new Mjolnir-shaped hole in the wall.

 

Sure enough, Thor rockets to his feet as outside the sky grows dark with thunderous clouds.

 

“ _Sigyn!_ Do you deny that you have, unnaturally, sired multiple children!? Willingly spawned a misbegotten brood while refusing to give my brother a single, worthy heir?”

 

“You Æsir and your archaicly high regard for matrimony.” Sigyn shakes his/her head. “A person’s worthiness should be determined by their beliefs and their actions, not their heritage. As for why I have had no children with Loki, it is simple: I never offered; he never asked. I suspect, as the reviled second prince, he felt he had no right to make such a request, especially of me.”

 

“Besides that, Thor, buddy, I kinda doubt that this one was bumpin’ uglies with the village haberdasher or some other lowlife. You gods are way too full of yourselves for that.” Tony knocks back a finger of whiskey, looking smug.

 

“He has a point,” Natasha admits. “For years, members of the upper class were the only ones who had any real influence in the world. And I can’t see you letting your godly sperm go to waste on a kid who’ll spend his life sweeping chimneys then die at age twenty from the black lung.”

 

Sigyn bows her (his?) head in agreement.

 

“I have been selective regarding whom I share a bed with, it is true. Because while I may have been deprived of the joy of raising them, they were still my children, and I have always wanted what is best for them. Just as I have always known that any child of mine is destined for eminence.”

 

“She of the ‘magnificent onus,’” Tony mutters. “Right… Wait, are you saying you’re the source behind guys like Mozart and Stephen Hawking and—” An abrupt stop, eyes going wide as he stares at Sigyn with something like awe.

 

“…Mom?” Tony gapes. At Sigyn’s arched eyebrow, “Dad?”

 

“I have sired no offspring since the winter of 1835,” Sigyn informs him. “And you make the mistake of assuming they were men.”

 

“Too bad,” Tony shrugs. “Guess that means I’m awesome all on my own.”

 

Meanwhile, Jane notices that Natasha has pulled out a StarkPad and is furiously tapping away, eyes flitting from Sigyn to the screen.

 

“Sigyn,” Thor entreats, “I ask that you return to your natural form.”

 

“Why, brother dear? When then only way to earn the respect of _your_ people is as a man?” A scoff, even as Thor’s request is met and everyone stops questioning their sexuality (or starts anew, Jane really isn’t sure of anything now, except that Pepper needs to keep Tony on a leash).

 

“But then,” the very female Sigyn continues, “as long as one is a _seiðmann_ , one shall never have the respect of Asgard.”

 

“Now is not the time for politics, Sigyn,” Thor warns.

 

“But when you are king, politics will appropriate _much_ of your time. Leading an empire doesn’t stop at looking regal and waging wars—or will you now claim to be looking forward to handling affairs of the state?”

 

Tony looks amused and Thor as stunned as Jane feels, but before she can ask what the hell is going on, Natasha interrupts.

 

“Empress Tzu-Hsi.” Her gaze lifts from the tablet and locks with Sigyn’s. “Female, born November 29, 1835. She was one of only two women to ever rule the Manchu Qing Dynasty.”

 

Sigyn looks pleased, if a little sad.

 

“Is that what gave it away?”

 

“It’s what confirmed it,” Natasha replies. “Your ring’s what made me think of her.”

 

Twitching the silver claw encasing her left ring finger, Sigyn’s lips pull slightly—a microscopic display of affection.

 

“She was quite fond of these, my Lan Kuei… Though they did naught but encourage her image as ‘the Dragon Lady.’ An ill-suited reputation if ever I heard one.”

 

“She was a ruthless, manipulative tyrant who caused the collapse of a two thousand-year-old empire,” Natasha states.

 

“Ruthless and manipulative, yes, but only out of necessity,” Sigyn promptly defends. “A woman so ambitious and erudite would have never survived, otherwise. Yet her legacy is nothing more than slanderous propaganda spawned by charlatans and scandalmongers who were catering to a gossip-starved Victorian England.

 

“She was misguided in her efforts to cling to antiquated mores, that I will admit. In trying to save her culture, she only secured its destruction.”

 

“But the Qing dynasty had favored self-imposed isolation over all things Western and modern before Tzu Hsi came to power,” Natasha allows. “She inherited a corrupt, backward system that she refused to let go of because she was a powerful woman at a time when that was unheard of. And, since the idea of absolute monarchy was becoming obsolete, she probably figured that supporting any attempts at reform would be the same as giving up her throne.”

 

“A pity she wasn’t more like her sister in that respect,” Sigyn murmurs.

 

Jane knits her brows.

 

“Oh boy…”

 

“Sigyn, _no_ —” Thor groans at the thought of more surprise nieces and nephews.

 

“Christina,” answers Natasha before Sigyn can. “Queen of Sweden.” She holds up the StarkPad to show them a picture of Sigyn juxtaposed with a portrait of a, frankly, rather homely looking young woman.

 

“I used SHIELD’s facial recognition program,” Natasha explains.

 

Jane stares because, yeah, she has no _idea_ where this hit came from. Bug-eyed, beaky, and with mass of dark curls overwhelming her head like an atomic blast, Queen Christina bears no resemblance to the beautiful deity that Jane is currently sharing the couch with.

 

“Aww,” Tony simpers, “she has your—what?” At Jane and Natasha’s cold glares, he huffs, “I was gonna say ‘ _eyes_.’ Perverts.”

 

Oh, she does—or did, Jane notes. But while the inky, heavy-lidded eyes make Sigyn seem aloof and canny, on Christina, they just look cartoonish.

 

“Highly intelligent and liberal-minded for her time…even though she wasn’t the son he’d wanted, her father made sure she was given a prince’s education…” Natasha reads from the StarkPad.

 

“Gustavus was content with a healthy child.” Clearly proud, Sigyn sits a little straighter. “A trivial matter such as what grows betwixt one’s legs had no influence on his affection.”

 

“Interested in science and politics from an early age,” Natasha continues, “independent, devoted to her country…ah. Cross-dresser _and_ lesbian.”

 

“Pics, or it didn’t happen,” Tony declares, holding out his hand for the tablet.

 

Natasha rolls her eyes, but acquiesces. “That would explain why she’s on the list of ‘Mad Monarchs.’”

 

“Her decision to abdicate likely contributed, as well,” Sigyn adds. “I did my best to convince her otherwise, but she wouldn’t hear it. I would not have minded, had the choice made her happy. As it stands, she eventually came to regret her actions and, by that time, it was too late.” A dismissive sign. “It is for that reason that I chose to create Tzu-Hsi with a peasant and not a royal.”

 

“So she’d never take her power for granted,” Jane realizes.

 

“Wait,” Tony interrupts, frowning at his StarkPad. “According to the Internet, Christina was a hermaphrodite? And, given the Artist Formerly Known as Princess’s habit of playing Switcheroo, I’m inclined to believe it. Hell, your kids can probably spout fireworks with their junk.”

 

“Normally I would be offended on your behalf, Sigyn, but given recent revelations, I must admit that Tony has a point.” Thor punctuates this with a hard expression and folds his arms. “Please elaborate.”

 

A roll of her eyes, but Sigyn explains: “While I took the measures necessary to ensure that, had the royal couple been absolutely set on a boy, Christina had the ability to accommodate them.” She sighs. “After all these years, and I still cannot understand why other realms insist on this dichotomy of male and female. While some races may lack the ability to change their sex, there is no indication that one is more important than the other.”

 

“Try telling that to Henry VIII,” Jane mutters, and you could probably reach out and poke her disdain, right now, it’s that apparent. No matter how pretty he was on that Showtime series, Jane’s never cared for people who abuse their power (ahem, _SHIELD_ ).

 

“A hopeless endeavor, unfortunately,” Sigyn is now informing her. “Though I certainly gave it by best effort.”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re Queen Elizabeth’s baby daddy, too,” Tony whines.

 

“No, she was the product of the King’s inability to staunch his licentious desire for those Boleyn girls.”

 

“It was Anne,” Jane feels compelled to tell her.

 

Sigyn sniffs. “It could have just as easily been the other one. Insatiable letch—and don’t you dare defend him, Thor,” she adds, cutting a glare at her brother-in-law. “Full reign of an empire does not give one the right to treat one’s subjects as that repugnant bully did.”

 

Though it makes her uncomfortable, Jane remembers all too well what an inconsiderate jerk Thor was when she first met him. And judging by her the princess’s steely expression, Sigyn is familiar with it, as well. At least now Thor has the good grace to look embarrassed.

 

“Well, you definitely didn’t father Edward,” Natasha determines, “because why would you do something nice for Henry VIII like give him the son he wanted?”

 

“That leaves…Bloody Mary,” Jane ventures and sees Sigyn go almost imperceptibly more rigid.

 

“Mary I, the first Queen Regnant of England, Ireland, and Wales, if you don’t mind,” she corrects stiffly. “For she was no bloodier than her father or ‘Good Queen Bess.’ Less so, in fact. She only ever tried to do what she believed was right, and to please her mother, the poor Queen Katherine… So clever and formidable, that woman could have ruled the entire country—and did, when Henry was off playing war games. And yet, she only ever aspired to be a worthy wife. A shame, really, especially given how little Henry appreciated her.”

 

“And after she’d lost so many kids, you gave her one,” Natasha finishes.

 

“A mere daughter, hardly suited to reign—or so the King convinced himself.” Sneering bitterly, Sigyn rails, “I’ve never been so insulted—she was the child of a _god_ , yet she was unworthy to wear the crown… Because she was a _woman_.”

 

“Hold up, pretty lady,” Tony demands. “Are you the reason why Henry VIII went from being Jonathan Rhys Meyers to Jabba the Hut?”

 

Before Sigyn can answer—

 

“His leg!” Thor exclaims. “If the ‘sexy Tudors’ program, as Tony calls it, is to be believed, then this Henry VIII was felled in a jousting competition and suffered an excruciating injury to his leg, which plagued him for the rest of his life.”

 

“As in that rancid, pustulating injury that he should have _died_ from?” Tony asks.

 

“No one…knows…exactly _what_ was wrong with his leg…” Jane remembers, a little awed. As a scientist, she’s always interested in finally discovering an answer to one of history’s mysteries. As a fan of _the ~~Sexy~~ Tudors_ , it’s nice to imagine that someone actually _did_ give Henry his comeuppance.

 

“Sigyn,” Thor begins slowly, “did you deliberately bring harm to Midgardian royal? To a _king?_ ”

 

“Attempting to cure the lesion with mercury didn’t help matters,” is all that Sigyn offers.

 

“That guy loved his sports, his hunting, and his whoring more than any of his wives or kids,” Natasha suddenly says, gazing at Sigyn. “You sought justice by robbing him of those pleasures—or at least making them extremely painful for him.”

 

“Not to mention gross,” Tony adds. “Can you imagine having to give that guy a blowjob when he’s got this nasty, smelly leg that’s all enflamed and oozing pus—”

 

“Okay, Tony, thanks for that,” Jane cuts in with a grimace before turning to Sigyn. “Y’know, while _the Tudors_ is hardly a model of historical accuracy, from the way they portrayed her, Mary was an okay person who got a raw deal.”

 

“Really raw,” Tony puts in. “Like, Henry’s gangrenous leg raw. Like, ‘Sorry, honey: You don’t got a dick, you don’t get a crown. Also, I kicked your mom to the curb and you’re now my new trophy wife’s slave.’” He snorts. “And I thought Howard took the cake for Epic Failure in Fatherhood.”

 

“The point is,” Jane continues testily, “that more people seem to be coming around to the idea that Mary doesn’t completely deserve the reputation she’s been given. That it’s mostly the result of some anti-Catholic propaganda written by—”

 

“John Foxe,” Sigyn hisses. “Yes. Thanks to his malicious doctrine, my daughter will forever be stigmatized as a deranged religious fanatic. Her sister’s accomplishments are still celebrated, yet it was Mary who created many of the policies that allowed Elizabeth to enjoy such a successful reign.”

 

“She still went overboard with the Catholicism,” Natasha points out.

 

“But…that’s why she was so devout, wasn’t it?” Jane ventures, excited as she always is whenever she’s come up with a new theory. And she really hopes that this one is correct, if only because the idea is just so…sweet. “I’ve read that Mary felt like she shared a connection with God…and she _did_ , didn’t she? Just not with _God_ -God.”

 

Sigyn smiles, still wan and controlled, but it’s the warmest Jane has ever seen her look.

 

“Of all my children, I think Mary came the closest to realizing what she was. We were much alike, from our loyalty and resilience, to our love of knowledge and finery…though her obduracy tended to outweigh her pragmatism. I confess, I silently persuaded her to eventually surrender to the King’s demands by denouncing her poor mother and declaring herself illegitimate.”

 

“You Vanir always have been quick to surrender,” Thor remarks with a chuckle, and Jane wants to headdesk. Or kick him. Or both.

 

Meanwhile, Sigyn fumes.

 

“The Vanir have always had a predilection for _pragmatism_ , and avoiding _unnecessary_ bloodshed. You’ll forgive me if I disapproved of my daughter committing involuntary suicide, as the King would have most _certainly_ had her executed, had she refused to comply.” A lofty toss of her head. “My culture celebrates _life_ , Thor, creation and fertility. Our disdain for brutality and warfare has nothing to do with weakness.”

 

“Fuckin’ hippies…” Tony smirks. “To think, I’m one of you, now. Out there stopping wars, planting trees…air-drying my dishes…”

 

“Which is actually less hygienic than using paper towels,” Natasha informs him. “Not to mention the number of national forests you’ve leveled while playing Iron Man.”

 

“For the record, Steve and Thor’s fisticuffs contributed to at least one of those disasters. Secondly, _that’s_ why nobody likes tree-huggers. No matter what you do, you can’t make them happy. They’re just like cats. Hilarious on the Internet, but that’s where they should stay.”

 

“You don’t like cats?” Jane inquires, wounded.

 

“What’s wrong with cats?” Natasha demands.

 

“My mother is the patron goddess of felines,” Sigyn adds. “Take care in choosing your next words.”

 

Thor says nothing, merely lifts one of the stylish throw pillows and presses it to Tony’s chest.

 

“Friend Stark, as you have difficulty staying silent, I suggest you arm yourself. I have found women to be quite formidable when defending adorable little animals.”

 

“There may be hope for you yet,” Sigyn muses of her brother-in-law as Tony mutters something about Thor being whipped.

 

“Listen,” Jane gently informs Sigyn, “I know patriarchy had a lot to do with your kids being screwed over, especially in history books…but Earth isn’t nearly as bad as it used to be. We’ve come a long way.”

 

“Not that we don’t still have a long way to go,” Natasha scoffs.

 

“True dat,” Tony replies. Then, at everyone’s surprised expressions, “What? I was agreeing with you! I may be Iron Man, but what would I do without Pepper?”

 

“Run your company yourself?” Jane snarks.

 

“And miss out on helping you with your science projects?” the billionaire returns pleasantly.

 

“Children, calm down and focus on the matter at hand,” Natasha orders, ever the bored voice of reason. Even if said reasoning sometimes involves the use of death threats or firearms.

 

“She started it,” Tony huffs, but goes back to nursing his drink. “So,” he begins anew, with a pointed glance at Sigyn, “Princess Buttercup, any other illegitimate, royal half-breeds you wanna tell us about?”

 

And it is immediately following this that a distant elevator dings, and a moment later, Steve, Pepper, and Coulson enter the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That guy from Berkeley \- Dr. John Lindow is a professor at Berkeley who teaches Norse literature and poetry, Scandinavian folklore, and culture and historical context surrounding them. He has written quite a few (very helpful) books and articles on the subjects. Basically, if SHEILD needed an expert in Norse mythology, he would be on their list of go-to guys.
> 
> Theoric Bárðrson \- from what I've gathered, Marvel never gave poor Theo a last name, so I went with “Bárðrson,” which is an Old Norse name derived from _baðu_ (battle) and _friðr_ (peace). It seemed fitting, considering he's a warrior who still lives by his society's "make love not war" philosophy.
> 
> Jack the Ripper \- I was and still am worried that this might be a bit overdone. Originally, I'd intended to have Sigyn help Theo capture the [Axeman of New Orleans](http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/serial_killers/weird/axeman/index.html) (and, in fact, had much of the scene already written), but _American Horror Story: Coven_ beat me to it.
> 
> "a pink plank leaning against a wall" \- Steve is describing John McCracken's _[the Absolutely Naked Fragrance](http://www.moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?criteria=O%3ADE%3AI%3A5%7CA%3AYM%3AM%3A2000-%2C1990-1999%2C1980-1989%2C1970-1979%2C1960-1969%2C1950-1959%2C1940-1949%7CG%3AOV%3AE%3A1&page_number=92&template_id=1&sort_order=1)_.
> 
>  _The Hunt of the Unicorn_ \- visuals would definitely be helpful while reading this scene, so here’s a link to the suspected [original order](http://arthistoryblogger.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-unicorn-tapestries.html) of the tapestries, and here’s how Loki arranged what he claims are [two separate sets](http://gwendish.tumblr.com/post/82062226516/the-unicorn-tapestries-according-to-loki) of tapestries. There actually has been a bit of debate as to whether or not all seven tapestries actually go together and if the collection didn't originally include more.
> 
> Vætkisson \- derived from the Norse term "vætki," which means "no one," so basically we get "Loki, son of no one."
> 
>  Gutefår \- is a real breed of sheep from Scandinavia, though they do not possess any magical properties, not even in Norse mythology. The [Viking Answer Lady](http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/vik_pets.shtml) explains it much better than I ever could, so I’ll direct you to her.
> 
> Sigyn's kids \- I love the Historical Domain Character trope and saw this as an opportunity to finally make use of it. Looking after her demigod offspring is one possible reason why she's absent from most of the Norse myths. Plus, the three particular ladies that I went with all have certain traits that are indicative of Sigyn's own personality. Regardless of how history remembers them, they were all intelligent, resourceful, and tenacious, and they all ruled empires on their own and were successful in at least some areas. While Sig's parental bias is obvious, I won't try to defend them--none of them committed any positive acts that were effective enough to be remembered over their negative ones. But the fact still remains that propaganda is to blame for much of their bad reputations. I'd go on, but I'd just end up writing a lengthy essay, so have some links instead: [Misunderstood, Empowered Women in History](http://gwendish.tumblr.com/post/82066821094/misunderstood-empowered-women-in-history). 
> 
> Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi also spelled "Cixi." "Lan Kuei" is Mandarin for "Little Orchid," which historians have debated was either Tzu-Hsi's given name or a pet name. Either way, it seemed fitting that Sigyn would refer to her by this title.
> 
> Queen Christina \- was, reportedly, neither hermaphrodite nor transgender nor male. Her remains were recently exhumed and determined to be undeniably female. That said, given the number of people who claimed that Christina had to have been a man, I thought it would be fun to suggest this was because Sigyn passed her shape-shifting abilities onto Christina, who had way too much fun messing with people.
> 
> Queen Mary I \- I had the worst time writing about Mary, largely because I have a lot of Mary Feels and had to keep reminding myself that this story is supposed to be relatively light-hearted. Discussing Mary's desire to be a mother and how she suffered not one but [two phantom pregnancies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u02SpsQIVKU) is not the best way to go about that. For the record, I think that Sigyn would feel rather guilty about her; While they might not be remembered fondly, at least Christina and Tzu-Hsi had relatively happy and fulfilling lives, whereas Mary's life was one heartbreak after another.
> 
>  _The Sexy Tudors_ \- is a reference to one of Kate Beaton’s hilarious _Hark! A Vagrant!_ comics.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

  _Neither one prepared…_

* * *

 

 

 It said something—perhaps not about their level of intimacy or trust, but their…acceptance of one another—that he and his wife could converse in such an unvarnished setting.  He was soaking in the bath, halfheartedly attempting to smother himself with a drenched cloth; she was wrapped in a towel, seated at the nearby dressing table, and taking a pumice stone to her feet.

 

He had just finished questioning her about the surge of familiar _seið_ that he had felt that afternoon, disarming the implied accusation with feigned nonchalance.

 

Of course her reply had been predictable—vague to anyone ambitious enough to ponder it, succinct to those too dull-witted to notice.  Neither admitting nor denying any part in the occurrence, Sigyn had instead remarked that two of the new palace guards—Ebbe and Bjarke—had unfortunately been cursed with the inability to show proper respect to certain members of the court, however, it was unlikely that they would forget themselves in the future.

 

Loki understood the cause for her cryptic words: For the sake of herself and her family, the rest of Asgard could not know the extent of Sigyn’s power.  It was one reason why he had married her; not only had he been taken by the fearsome allure of her _seið_ , he had little doubt of what his father would do if aware of such a spell-weaver.  At least if they were wed, Odin would not dare lock his own daughter-in-law inside his weapons’ vault.  Loki knew now as he had known then that Sigyn could protect herself, but then, that additional security had always been more for his own peace of mind.  Unlike the Vanir, most Æsir, his father included, could not sense _seið_ , they could only see it.  Therefore, was she not safest in the Golden Realm?

 

Many a time, Sigyn had accused him of being selfish and Loki had always dismissed it, knowing that there would come a day when she would at last understand his reasoning.  She had begun to grant him some leniency, however, about four decades ago.  And only a moment earlier she had brushed her fingertips against his waiting hand, allowing the wraith of a memory to pass between them on a warm rush of magic.

 

Wispy, harlequin fragments churned behind his closed eyelids as he waited for Sigyn’s recollections to align.  Once the images settled, Loki was presented with the truth of that afternoon.

 

Apparently, the guards had barred Sigyn from entering Idunn’s orchard on the grounds that she had no right to be there.  Clearly lacking in intelligence, the pair had taken it further by asking what Sigyn wanted with Idunn.

 

“You know how _close_ Vanir families are rumored to be,” Bjarke had hinted.  “Mayhap she intended to visit Lady Idunn’s golden bush.”

 

Any halfwit knew that a slight against her sisters was enough to rile the usually impassive Sigyn.  Yet before she could put either of them in their place, Ebbe had thrown in:

 

“Can’t hardly blame her.  I’d gladly take a turn ‘round Idunn’s garden.”  A lewd sneer.  “And I doubt our second prince could satisfy anyone.”

 

“Svadilfari certainly seemed happy to have him,” Bjarke had returned.

 

The other guard had chuckled.  “True enough—but look at what resulted from that coupling!”  A shared round of laughter before Ebbe had chosen to acknowledge Sigyn again.  “Is that why you’ve yet to bear him any children?”

 

“Mayhap she’d rather he bear them for her?” Bjarke had suggested.  “Surely he couldn’t shame the royal family any more than he already has, and the Vanir have always been fond of keeping monstrous pets.  Speaking of, how fairs your grandfather with his Frost Giant, Princess Sigyn?  Has he had any success in breaking it in?”

 

Bristling almost imperceptibly, Sigyn had replied, “While I can understand Asgard’s trepidation regarding the Vanir-Jötun trade agreement, I insist that you show proper respect toward both my grandfather and the Lady Skaldi, as well as the rest of my family.”

 

It had been a futile demand.  After all, their unwavering, awe-inspiring Æsir bravery had been called into question.  And by a Vanir, no less!  The _nerve_.  

 

It must have been purely coincidental, then, that Ebbe and Bjarke had, shortly thereafter, been attacked by a swarm of vicious butterflies.  How curious that the rainbow flurry of wings and minuscule razor-teeth had spared Sigyn not even a glance.  Ah, but the Vanir have always had an odd familiarity with wildlife—yes, that must have been it.  At least, that was what the two guards would later tell themselves, after vowing to keep secret the fact that two such fine warriors had been brought low by so frail a creature.

 

Loki felt a dull pulse of resentment at the insult to his character, but by now he was familiar with these aspersions and thus only permitted himself to feel offended if the slander was cast by someone he respected.

 

And that was a very short list.

 

“May I ask,” he began, turning in the bath, “why you were so keen on visiting your sister?”

 

“I needed an alibi,” his wife returned simply.  “Today your father held a private audience with you and your brother.  With everyone else barred from the meeting, I knew that it concerned a matter of importance and I fully intended to witness it.  However, to avoid suspicion, I first needed Idy to verify that I was with her all afternoon.”

 

“I don’t know why you insist on being such a literal fly on the wall,” Loki sighed, neatly wringing out his washcloth.  “When _I_ could easily be your eyes and ears.  I am required at those meetings, after all.”

 

“I prefer to be there myself.”

 

The words stung, if only mildly, despite his knowing that Sigyn didn’t mean that as a slight against his competence.  It simply reminded him of how useless he was to the rest of the kingdom. 

 

“Regardless, it seems you’ll have to rely on me today,” he informed her.

 

“Mm.”

 

He arched a brow, as Sigyn never once paused in her ministrations, still diligently smoothing the roughened part of her heel.  Apparently, she wasn’t in a gaming mood, believing that either he would tell her or he wouldn’t but that, one way or another, she would eventually have the information that she sought. 

 

That was unfortunate.  He’d rather been looking forward to teasing her for a bit—not until she begged, but when she became suitably riled, _that_ was when he would have divulged what he knew. Frankly, Loki felt that he was entitled to some fun, given the Allfather’s latest decree.  Alas, his wife was nothing if not stubborn, and Loki knew that she would not be baited.

 

“Father,” he began measuredly, “has decided…that Thor…shall be King.”

 

Sigyn only shrugged, remarked “Well, that’s hardly surprising,” then went back to her feet.

 

Her response irked him to no end.

 

“You cannot claim that this doesn’t perturb you—”

 

“Of course it does.”  Her tone was sharp.  “But growing agitated does nothing to change the situation, nor improve it.  It is what it is.  We both knew this was coming.”

 

Loki shook his head.

 

“Thor is not ready to be King.  He’s far too juvenile… He knows nothing of judicial matters and cares little for strengthening alliances, let alone developing _new_ ones.  And we have no hope of negotiating trade agreements—Thor can’t be expected to hold polite conversation with visiting dignitaries…”

 

“That’s why he has you,” Sigyn pointed out, though her eyes were distant.

 

“Yes, because he holds my opinion in such high regard,” Loki sneered.

 

“He will.  When he realizes that he is ill-prepared to oversee governmental affairs.”

 

“Which means that _I_ will be tasked with maintaining all matters not related to warfare.  Not that my efforts will ever be acknowledged,” he added bitterly.

 

“Of course not,” Sigyn agreed.  “He’ll assume that you’re only doing what’s expected of a loyal subject.”

 

The tranquil candlelight suddenly flared with his ire as he seethed, “I am _not_ his subject, I am his _brother_.”

 

Undaunted, his wife flicked her wrist and set the candles right.  That drained the fight out of him and he sank miserably back into the waters, propping his chin on the rim of the bath.

 

“Even if he does shift his responsibilities onto me, he won’t be happy as a king,” Loki continued.  “There’s a certain amount of decorum expected of a monarch, and Thor either cannot or will not uphold that.   Not that Father seems concerned.”

 

“Of course not.  Thor is the quintessential Æsir.  Your people would rather see him crowned than someone more qualified.”

 

Loki shook his head.  Sigyn’s binding spell ensured that the truth would surface, though he always had the option of avoiding it through silence.  This, however, was a truth that he wanted known.

 

“I don’t want to be king.  Not really.  I would hate it.”  A soft, humorless laugh.  “For the same reasons _Thor_ will hate it—the stifling amount of responsibility, the constant need for a front…  Just because I _can_ do the work doesn’t mean that I _enjoy_ it.  Even as King, I wouldn’t be allowed to simply _be_.”

 

With that, he rose briskly from the bath and summoned a towel for himself.

 

“What of my people?” Sigyn asked abruptly.  “Your brother has never made secret his dislike for our alliance with Jötunheim.  He’ll try to break it, we’ll refuse…there’s nothing to stop him from imprisoning us as traitors—”

 

“He won’t go that far, Sig—”

 

“Won’t he?” she demanded quietly.  “Thor is a good man, yes, but he still hungers for war.  When he takes the throne, the only one capable of reasoning with him will have succumbed to Odinsleep, and nothing short of an uprising from another realm will divert his attention for Vanaheim.”

 

Normally, he would have been pleasantly intrigued by his wife’s sudden vehemence, but as it was, he found himself more distracted by her off-handed observation.

 

_“…nothing short of an uprising from another realm will divert his attention…”_

 

_“...an uprising from another realm…”_

_“…an uprising…”_

 

Oh.  _Oh_.

 

Asgard might have been wary of the Vanir, but its people were too arrogant to fret over a race of bookish, peace-loving sorcerers.  No, in their minds, the only true threat was the realm of ice and darkness that they had vanquished so many years ago.  For decades, now, Jötunheim had been silent, and silence always put the Æsir on edge.  It was one reason why _he_ was so unpopular.

 

But…if he were to reignite the feud between the two realms…Father likely wouldn’t start another war, not with an impending Odinsleep…but if Loki were to create a conflict—something small but effective...enough to distract from Thor’s coronation, anger the people of Asgard, and give Vanaheim cause to voluntarily cut ties with Jötunheim…the Vanir were highly intelligent; they would have enough sense to want to preserve their alliance with Asgard…

 

It would be better for everyone this way, surely…

 

Traveling unseen to another realm—that he could do with ease; he had been hiding himself from Heimdal’s gaze for decades now, and few ever took notice of his absence, anyway.  Finding Frost Giants who were vindictive but without a following would take time, but convincing them to invade Asgard wouldn’t be a challenge.  Very likely, they would be more than eager to bring some destruction to their enemies. 

 

Additionally, Sigyn would have to be sent away before his plans were executed.  Despite their shared barter system, Jötunns were known to kidnap Vanir maidens and, indeed, Sigyn’s mother and sisters had been targeted on several occasions.  And while the theft of Asgard’s princess would certainly warrant both Thor and Father’s attention, Loki would rather not put his wife at risk.

 

“Have you considered how this will affect your children?” Sigyn was saying now, looking quite upset.  Or, as upset as she ever allowed herself to look.  Her gaze was hard and her lips pursed tightly, though her tone was as calm as it ever was.  “Sleipnir and Hela have little to fear, but what of your other sons?  Thor won’t allow them to remain free, even if they _have_ been exiled.”

 

“Thor may not be overly fond of them, he is still their uncle.  If nothing else, he will leave them alone as a favor to me.”

 

“Then what of my people?” she demanded.  “You know if Thor brings any harm to them, my loyalties will _split_ —”

 

“Your loyalties,” Loki sneered, though not without affection,  “will lie with your home, as they always have.”

 

“Well that’s helpful,” Sigyn muttered.

 

“However,” he began, “it might be prudent if you were to visit Vanaheim.  Even if it meant being absent from the coronation.”

 

Shrewd as always, his wife fixed him with a dark, critical eye.

 

“You’re planning something,” she easily deduced.  Yet it was more of a statement than an accusation.

 

“Oh wife,” he sighed, his smile only somewhat patronizing.  “When am I ever _not?_ ”

 

 

* * *

.•°*°•.

* * *

 

 

When the day of Thor’s ascension finally arrived, the Golden Realm was ecstatic.  During the week prior, its citizens had been celebrating ad nauseam, so Loki could only imagine how the festivities would escalate after his brother had actually been crowned.

 

At least Sigyn was safely ensconced in Vanaheim under the guise of helping her sister, Sjofn, correct a love spell that had gone awry.     

 

His mother was either serenely proud or close to tears, but her happiness was nevertheless constant.  The only time she noticed her second son was when she wanted wax reminiscent about how her eldest had always been such a brave, strong little boy, so handsome and well-liked, and with a gift for leadership even from a young age.

 

As much as he loved his mother, Loki strived to avoid her when he could.  Thankfully, his father had been keeping him relatively busy, having him undertake the numerous diplomatic chores that needed to be settled before the coronation.  Thor certainly couldn’t be bothered, and Odin was spending much of _his_ time preparing Thor for the throne.

 

Thor, for his part, seemed to have forgotten that he had a brother.

 

Which was just as well.  With his family and, indeed, the rest of the kingdom largely ignoring him, Loki had been able to make his journey to Jötunheim undetected.  For that same reason, no one had questioned him when he had insisted that, during the coronation ceremony, Ebbe and Bjarke were to be put in charge of guarding the Weapons Vault. 

 

The Frost Giants certainly took their time sneaking into Asgard, he had thought irritably.  Thor had very nearly been crowned when the Allfather realized that the enemy had invaded his realm.  But no matter.  Thor _hadn’t_ been crowned, and his little tantrum ensured that that was unlikely to happen any time soon.  Now their father could no longer deny that his eldest was still too reckless to take the throne.

 

For a moment, Loki had even come close to feeling what might have been optimism, his machinations had played out so well.

 

Then Thor had dragged him on a vengeful quest to Jötunheim and promptly ruined everything.

 

Really, Loki would later muse, he should have foreseen that.

 

 

* * *

.•°*°•.

* * *

 

 

For the longest time, Idunn and Sigyn had been Freyja’s only children.  It was for this reason that they were closer to each other than they were their younger siblings.  Their mother had never been an ideal parent (too vain, too restless, flitting from realm to realm, lover to lover), but they had had their grandfather, and later Skaldi, and each other.  Idunn could still recall being woken in the pink, misty hours of dawn by Sigyn, who was eager to show off her new ability to set fire to the drapes, or having Sigyn follow her around the gardens whilst Idunn made the flowers bloom.  (They would always become hopelessly tangled in Sigyn’s curls, but Idunn was happy to make laurel crown after laurel crown.)

 

She had always suffered a bit of weakness as far as her younger sister was concerned, even after the others had been born.  It was coupled with one’s natural desire to protect a sibling, which, frankly, might have been easier to endure had Sigyn been more like Trima or Nanna, more impulsive or naïve.  But she wasn’t.  So clever and resourceful, with her powers increasing each day, Sigyn could easily look after herself, leaving Idunn feeling rather useless.  For what would happen if Sigyn ever _did_ meet her match?  If her sister couldn’t protect herself, certainly there would be little that Idunn could do to help her.  Sigyn’s forced marriage had been proof of that.

 

Now that that wretched husband had finally paid Sigyn a kindness in committing suicide, Idunn had initially thought that her sister would have been pleased, or at the very least relieved. 

 

Yet Sigyn’s conduct earlier that day insisted otherwise.  At first, Idunn couldn’t blame her for being irked by the raucous behavior of the Æsir—it _was_ a funeral, after all.  Even if he hadn’t been popular, Loki had still been their prince.  A certain amount of respect was demanded, at least in the presence of the man’s wife and family.  However, the golden realm was more intent on celebrating the return of their first prince rather than mourning the death of their second.

 

In an effort to remind everyone of his severe paucity of taste, Odin-King had decided that Thor’s homecoming feast would be held in tandem with Loki’s funeral.  Charming.  It surprised Idunn that the Allmother hadn’t protested this arrangement, but then, she had never known Frigga to interfere with Odin’s decisions. 

 

At least the royal family had maintained their decorum, attending the festivities but not partaking in them.  Idunn doubted that she could have abided that, no matter how deeply her animosity for Loki ran.

 

Thor’s behavior was nearly as unsettling as Sigyn’s.  Never before had she seen the Prince look so forlorn.  Silent and dejected, as if the golden Æsir light had been stolen from him, the Prince had stood before the majestic longboat that would carry his brother’s spirit to Valhalla. 

 

Beside him had stood Sigyn, equally tacit and strangely wilted.  Where it had once been tradition for both Æsir and Vanir alike for the widow to join her husband’s body on the burning boat, committing herself to the cinders alongside him, now both realms partook in the considerably less drastic practice of allowing the wife to light the first arrow before passing it to the lead archer. 

 

But here her sister had done a curious thing: Rather than using the nearby fire pit or twisting her fingers to conjure a _seið-_ born flame, Sigyn had lifted the bolt to her face and bestowed upon it a kiss, igniting the tip with a single press of her lips.

 

Idunn had not known what to make of it, perplexed as she watched her sister relinquish the arrow to Thor, and then still more lost when something unspoken passed between brother- and sister-in-law in the moment of their shared gaze.

 

Thor, she could understand.  He was grieving a brother, a friend, a near-constant in his upbringing… Now that ever-present shadow was gone, and Thor would have to live on without him.  Idunn could not fathom a life without Sigyn, being unable to save the one she had sworn to protect; she could only imagine the suffocating guilt that would surely follow such a failure, lingering like the dregs of a fever that could be abated but never destroyed.

 

From what she had witnessed, the two brothers had been living contrasts of one another, vastly different and forever quarreling.  But Thor, Idunn was certain, had loved Loki and would sorely miss him.

 

But Sigyn _…_ What of Sigyn?  She couldn’t be missing that man, not when he had wreaked such turmoil upon their family.  Thiassi’s kidnapping was still a fresh wound in Idunn’s memory; it had only happened a century ago.

 

Instead, the younger woman was practically dispirited, watching the coiling smoke and biting flames of Loki’s funeral barge with a look of wistful contemplation.

 

Her sister had retreated into the secluded, palatial fortress of her mind—and Idunn knew not the reason why Sigyn had withdrawn, nor when she would return.  Indeed, all that Idunn knew for certain was that, somehow, that deplorable bastard Loki continued to plague her family, even in death.

 

 

* * *

.•°*°•.

* * *

 

 

“I worry for my daughter.”

 

“Of course.  It is only natural for a mother to fret over her children.”  Magnanimous as ever, even during her time of grief, Frigga neglected to point out the other woman’s maternal shortcomings.  Freyja rather detested her for it.

 

“May I ask,” Frigga then broached, “which of your daughters is causing you the most concern?”

 

“Surely your time in Asgard hasn’t dulled your perception?  I should think the answer obvious.”  Her tone was all but mocking.

 

The other woman bowed her head, smiling gently.

 

“Apologies.  Yet, given the size of your brood, one can’t be sure which child you’re referring to.”

 

“Why, the one we are both related to, of course.”  No, Freyja didn’t care much for Frigga.  She had only paid the woman a visit out of a nagging, maternal compulsion that she hadn’t even known she possessed.  Now, here they were, taking a turn about the royal gardens to perpetuate the façade of decorum when all Freyja wanted was to _get on with it_.

 

“Sigyn has been to visit Loki’s children,” Frigga clarified, “to bring them news of recent…developments.”

 

Freyja nodded in understanding.  She wasn’t so cruel as to ask Frigg to elaborate.  As far removed from motherhood as she was, Freyja could nonetheless sympathize with the loss of a child.  If it happened to take a while before she noticed the absence one of her daughters, well… she was _very busy_ —overtaxed, even—catering to two realms, leading the Valkyries, tending to the cats…

 

“I see,” she murmured.  “However, I believe she was behaving oddly before she left.  Frigga, I have never been one to mince words.”

 

“Indeed.  Your candor is a trait I have always appreciated,” the other woman replied.

 

Freyja barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

 

“Then you’ll not be offended when I express my confusion upon learning that my daughter appears to be mourning your son’s demise.”

 

Frigga grew quiet.

 

“It’s no secret that they were less than fond of one another,” Freyja continued.  “Ergo, what could have possibly warranted Sigyn’s reaction?”

 

“Four centuries of marriage,” Frigga supplied.  “With enough time, they could have—”

 

“Oh _Frigg_ —”

 

“I’ll have you know that my son cared very deeply for your daughter.”  Frigga’s tone held a sharpness that sounded jarring coming from the normally benevolent goddess.   Freyja found it highly amusing.

 

“Perhaps it’s the news of his parentage that has her troubled,” she ventured, all innocence.  At the other woman’s silence, Freyja continued, “Perhaps it would have been better for us all, had you told him sooner.”

 

“Odin thought it better for Loki to remain unaware, and I agreed—”

 

“Odin thought it best and you said _nothing_ ,” Freyja sneered.  “The Vanir might advocate a philosophy of ‘submission when prudent,’ but with _you_ , that has been grossly misunderstood.”

 

“It is not my place to stand against my husband and king.”

 

“…how disappointing,” Freyja sniffed.  “I’ll admit to having never found you terribly impressive, Frigg, but I thought that you possessed at least _some_ dignity.  For someone who bears the title of All-Mother, you certainly have been remiss in your duties.”

 

Frigga bristled, indignant.

 

“And I suppose you are a paragon of motherhood?” she demanded coolly.  “Pray, how many children _do_ you have, Freyja?  And can you remember all of their names?”

 

At this scathing inquiry, Freyja felt a triumphant grin spread across her face.

 

“At last, I get a rise out of you.  It is about time.”

 

All at once, Frigga’s ire shattered.

 

“Damn you…” she whispered.  “My child has died, and you seek to use my grief for your own amusement.”

 

“Peace, Frigga, please,” Freyja said dismissively, rolling her eyes.  “I only provoke you because you need it.  You certainly aren’t going to take your aggression out on the one who truly deserves it.”

 

“It is not my place—”

 

“And what place is that?  Perched on the arm of Odin’s throne like a simpering trollop?”

 

Frigga stiffened.

 

“It symbolizes my position as the King’s right hand.”

 

“Bull _shit_ ,” Freyja accused, seizing the opportunity to use her favorite Midgardian colloquialism.  “It shows how askew the balance of power is in this realm.  You know,” she continued thoughtfully, “when it was first announced that the King of Asgard would be wedding a Vanir, our people were hopeful.  They thought that there might finally be a return to prominence, that the Æsir would treat us as respected equals—as was agreed upon in the truce—and not the glorified servants they see us as.”  She shook her head.  “I knew it was all in vain.  I knew because I know _you_ , Frigga.  And clever and capable though you may be, you are just as weak as you’ve always been.  Either unable or un _willing_ to stand up to anyone.”

 

What she was saying was treason, of course.  But, as leader of the Valkyries, daughter of Njörðr, and mother of the goddess responsible for everyone’s (near) immortality, Freyja was free to speak her mind with little to no consequence.

 

“My parenting is nothing to emulate, it’s true,” she continued.  “And I have recoiled from proposals of marriage as if they were a plague, yet even I can see the folly in letting your partner dictate your life, _especially_ when it comes to the welfare of your children.”  Her lip curled in disgust.  “Keeping secrets such as yours can only end in tragedy.”

 

“Of that I am well aware,” murmured Frigga, voice strained and grave.

 

“While I certainly don’t feel sympathy for the little liar, I can’t say that I’m surprised that he reacted the way he did, not after the revelation he was given.  I’ve never made a secret of my daughters’ parentage.”

 

She could see it in the twitch of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, that Frigga was desperate to respond that _that_ would require actually knowing who her children’s fathers were but was too determined to maintain their air of courtesy to voice her opinion.  Freyja smirked sweetly.  

 

“Frankly, a number of Vanir suspected that your youngest was adopted.  Even if one were to ignore the fact that he bore no resemblance to you or the rest of your family, the bratling was a renowned sorcerer.  The only way he could have only inherited magic such as his is if it had been gifted by _both_ of his parents.  As the King is not a natural _seiðmann_ , the popular opinion is that the Second Prince was sired by another.  And that _that_ is why a once-Vanir would refuse to stand up to her husband.”

 

“I am both guilty and grateful,” Frigga said at last, “but not for the reasons you may think.  Despite what you may believe, Loki truly was a wonder.  His bravery equaled Thor’s, yet it went unnoticed, overshadowed by other gifts that have no worth in Asgard.”  She drew a shuddering breath.  “And I was too weak to force Odin to acknowledge that.

 

“My son was not at peace, here.  I cannot claim ignorance—I knew.  I _knew_ , yet I did nothing save cling to the hope that, someday, things would change.  Or perhaps I only hoped that Loki would change.  Not once did I discourage him, but never did I suggest that others might be wrong.  Instead I told him to look to his father and brother, and follow their example—” she faltered under the threat of tears.  “Is it no wonder he took his own life?” 

 

For once, Frejya kept her opinions to herself.

 

 

* * *

_…treasures untold…_

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lock his own daughter-in-law inside his weapons’ vault \- I've actually given some thought to writing a AU one-shot wherein Odin does exactly this. If I ever decide to go through with it, it'd be almost like a twisted version of Rapunzel. Or _Tangled_ -meets- _the Prince of Egypt_ , since I picture wee Loki sneaking into the Weapons' Vault; befriending Sig; and, when he finds out he's adopted, going full-blown Moses on Asgard. Because I always hoped that that was how _Thor_ would end, even though I'm realistic enough to know that films like to go easy on their audiences by making everyone's personalities pretty clear--and that couldn't really happen if both Thor and Loki were regarded as heroes, now could it? ;D
> 
> Ebbe and Bjarke – old Norse names meaning “wild boar” and “bear,” respectively. I also apologize for creating such blatantly stock bully characters, especially since I like to make everyone (even minor characters) at least somewhat three-dimensional.
> 
> "how close Vanir families are rumored to be" \- in Norse mythology, of the few things known about Vanaheim, one is that its people may or may not have been incestuous. In this story, that might have been true long ago, but now the Vanir are just deeply loyal toward family members (regardless of whether they're related by blood). 
> 
> the Vanir-Jötun trade agreement \- as I've mentioned before, Jötuns kidnapping Vanir women appears to be a regular thing in Norse mythology. On the other hand, a number of Vanir men fell for Jötuns and, in a less aggressive form of courtship, married them. With that in mind, a barter system between the two realms doesn't seem unrealistic.
> 
> Carnivorous Butterflies \- because nobody _ever_ suspects...the BUTTERFLY. [See for yourselves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJdCrHyut6s).  Or, if you're as appalled as I am about the crappy quality, have [some stills](http://gwendish.tumblr.com/post/118269548010/trynsave-the-butterfly) instead.
> 
> Ebbe and Bjarke were...guarding the Weapons Vault \- [damnit, Loki](http://gwendish.tumblr.com/post/102795000570).  Well, that's what they get for insulting the wife and kids.
> 
> Loki’s funeral \- while Thor’s signature weapon is Mjolnir, I thought that it would be fitting if he were the one to shoot the arrow that ignited Loki’s funeral barge. Besides, I can't imagine that the hammer is the only thing that Thor knows how to wield.
> 
> Widow-burning \- I couldn’t find the proper viking term for this ritual, but it _was_ common in Scandinavia, as well as China, Africa, and India. However, it seems like the practice is best known by the Indian word _sati_. To give an incredibly generalized description, this involved the murder and/or suicide of the deceased husband’s wife. It was typically done either during his funeral or on top of his grave, usually via immolation. The viking version of _sati_ could also involve taking the dead warrior’s favorite slave girl (or a number of them), having her spend ten days getting drunk while the funeral preparations were made, letting the dead warrior's friends gang rape her (out of love and respect for the guy), and finally sticking her on a funeral barge with him and promptly setting it on fire. Good times.
> 
> “And can you remember all of their names?” – originally, I was going to have Frigga ask if Freyja knew who her daughters’ fathers were, but I thought that that was too much like slut shaming. And anyway, here Frigg was calling Freyja out on her parenting, not her promiscuity.


End file.
